


Hard Times at Clegane Ranch

by prettybadmagic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Age Difference, Age Play, Alpha Sandor Clegane, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Breeding, Cock Tease, Daddy Issues, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, F/M, Face-Sitting, Fluff, Fuck Or Die, Heavy Petting, Hurt/Comfort, Impregnation, Kinkier than planned but kinky nonetheless - be aware, Lady Sansa lol, Loss of Virginity, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Mating, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Touching, Omega Sansa Stark, Praise Kink, Rancher Sandor, Rutting, Sandor's Hands, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Violent Thoughts, Westerosi Western, ddlg undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 55,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27859525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybadmagic/pseuds/prettybadmagic
Summary: At the end of the Civil War, southern soldier Sandor Clegane takes his meager savings to patch up his family’s old ranch out west. He leads the simple, solitary life of an unmated alpha. He tends his herd and horses, earns a modest income, and passes time whittling and playing harmonica.But one night, after a long drive on the home range, something smells off. It’s a sweet something, the likes of which he’s never known. He traces the scent back to his barn and finds a little bird in the hay loft, crash-landed, lame, and fevered.She’s a pretty bird. An omega bird. And much to Sandor’s horror: she’s in heat.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 545
Kudos: 573





	1. Pie

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy 🤠
> 
> Welcome to a major PBM experiment: my first A/B/O fic. This is mostly a nostrum to my more angsty endeavors, because I need something lighthearted to lean on. So, that said, this is going to be pretty wet and wild. Very smutty, and hopefully a little silly. I really really _really_ want to mitigate angst. We'll see. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I have limited experience reading A/B/O. I'm kinda just rolling with the parts I like, so it's not gonna be textbook accurate. Sandor is a damn dog man, what else is there? Oh yeah, _an actual wolf girl_. They belong together. 
> 
> This is set in a Weird Western Westeros whose politics low key mirror the politics in the States at the end of the 19th century. The world building isn't supposed to be perfect, I've never even written a western, I'm just tryna have fun here, so bear with me. It will be dual POV (for increased smuttiness, i.e. jacking off) and the chapters are gonna be a little shorter than usual because of that. Keep in mind Sansa is underage, so all sex is dubcon. **Update:** I added tags for violence and non-con for Chapter 16 specifically, see chapter note for more information. Proceed how you will. 
> 
> I'm gonna update this story whenever I feel like it, but you can follow me on twitter [@_prettybadmagic](https://twitter.com/_prettybadmagic?lang=en) if you wanna keep up with what I'm working on; I have a major SanSan addiction, whoops. 
> 
> Let's get the party started with a track by our favorite cowboy, [ Orville Peck. ](https://youtu.be/TU0TAsEjUpg) And if you want some visual inspo, daddystiltskin made [this awesome mood board!](https://weheartit.com/elnewton/collections/179538442-fic-aes-hard-times-at-clegane-ranch-sansan)
> 
> Enjoy!

**Sandor**

The scent snuck up on Sandor, real slow, like snow melt drip in early spring. It was a trace of sweet perfume, the kind that got your nostrils flared, eyes narrowed for a sight that matched. Sandor didn't see her. A big orange sun pierced itself on Eden's Peak to the west, and dragged long shadows over the range. He saw only his herd around him, his steed beneath him, and his Lady at his side. 

He told the Serret boys, Elmar and Lucas, to head on home. They lent a hand with shorter drives, to build character or what have you. Good boys. Soft with the cattle, not afraid to get their hands dirty, or their pants ripped to hell on thorny brush. If they smelled anything off, they didn't mention it. They went on home. 

Thing was, these hills were in deep spring now. The winter war was hard fought and three years done. Bright green grasses and early irises took root in the arid alpine fields. The nearby snowy peaks sluiced to full-blown streams, and gushed down into the pass. Sandor got his herd through the final fenceline, a crude thing of rough hewn logs and barbed wire, before the scent came in stronger. 

It came like an ice-cold creek. 

_Peaches_ , Sandor thought, his blood prickling. Old Lady Lydden made herself a peach pie down south there a ways. Only that couldn't be, because the smell wafted in from the southeast. 

From straight ahead. 

_From the ranch._

The second problem was that there weren't any peaches up in these parts, no ser. Those were southern fruits, a rare bliss Sandor knew from when he stacked bodies for southern masters. A terrible trade, you best believe, but Gods, did Sandor love a ripe peach. Nothing like an orchard stroll in high summer, red orange fruits sagging on low branches, begging to be plucked and sucked to stone. Oh yes, Sandor could pluck and suck as good as the rest of them. Better, even. 

And that's precisely he wanted now. Pants didn't cooperate with Sandor's thighs, never had. Some things weren't meant to be contained. His canvas riding pair were especially uncooperative, and what they didn't cooperate with was the stiffness that swelled against their seams. Sandor's cock was a wild thing. Untamable, unbreakable, like some said of Stranger. He wanted what he wanted. 

He wanted... _to_ _pluck_. 

Sandor split from his herd and gave Stranger's ribs a friendly kick onward, down the narrow gravel trail that led to the ranch. The stallion gave him a look back, because the smart bastard sure smelled Sandor's sorry state. His palms itched on reins. His breath came fast, though he willed it to steadiness. He was getting hungry, hungry for a dozen piping hot pies on a dozen open window sills. But he didn't want pie from Old Lady Lydden, he wanted pretty omega pie. 

That's what he was smelling. 

Not one juicy peach, a whole dishful. Sweet, steamy, skin spiced and bursting. Sandor hadn't smelled something like that in months. Serret kept his wife nice and big, stuffed full each time the lurid ferment of heat drifted up the pass. Other times it drifted down, from one of the roving mountain clans. Their women were fertile, and well guarded. Sandor had never had a slice of that. 

His last slice of pie was up near Hornvale, on the other side of the Gold Road. The Gold Line, now. A man could buy time with any number of sweet ladies at the Purple Unicorn. Real pretty girls, inside and out. They cowered at the first visit, sure, but they didn't cower none after that. Sandor knew how to treat a lady proper. You learned. Omega girls wanted a nice alpha to nip at them and toss them around. Stir up their bellies a bit. If you treated them good, you could come back. Didn't matter if your face was scarred to shit. 

Sandor didn't have a lady wife at the ranch, a delicate little omega to call his own. So he was a good alpha. He spilled his seed to the side. He kept himself secluded during ruts, and went up to the Unicorn later to get his plow polished. To get his share of pie. 

Gods, he was hungry. Sandor licked his lips and dragged them through his teeth. The scent was thick, marmalade on his skin. He smeared the back of his palm against his mouth. Sweetness there, too. So Sandor swallowed some down; he drank the air. Shoulda been cold in his lungs, but no. He filled himself with heat, the near visible kind that bubbles off of white coal. Oh, he could see the scent now, so bright it started to turn him blind. 

Sandor blinked in the blue haze of dusk, and squinted at the trail ahead. Close. Quarter mile.

And now he was thinking: what could this even be, this pie, this feast, this ambrosia from on high? 

It wasn't here yesterday, or any day before, though Sandor would have been too deep in the mountains to catch it. Lady didn't warn him none, and Lady wasn't warning him right now either. The shaggy bitch loped ahead of Stranger, pink tongue lolling from her slobbery jowls. Almost as excited as Sandor. 

No, that wasn't possible. He had sweat bullets through his shirt. His sleeves stuck to the leather of his vest down his elbows. Sandor picked up his hat to get fresh air on his scalp and push his hair into place. It clung to his forehead and came down in dense, damp strings over his scars. He wanted his damn pie. If you found a fresh pie on your land, you kept it. That was the way things worked, or at least that was what Sandor told himself. 

_That plate of peaches waiting for me—it's mine._

_All mine._

Warrior above, that was the feeling: _mine. Mine, mine, mine_. 

That was the skin-crawling, blood-tingling, cock-spurring feeling that crashed down on him like a glacial landslide. Snow burns too, oh yes it does. Burns real good. White hot heat pumped in Sandor's veins. It stuffed his cock full and throbbed there like stormy tide. His sack hung heavy, longing to be unburdened, because what went better with peach pie than a pot of fresh cream? 

A whole jug's worth, that's what. 

That's what Sandor carried in the saddle. What Stranger lugged to the edge of the ranch. As they crested that final hill, the smell hit Sandor so hard he doubled over. He let go of the reins to clutch the creature that ached between his legs. 

This was no peach, no pie. It was a whole damn tree. Fruit heavy, eager to kiss the ground. And which of the Seven was cruel enough, generous enough, to transplant something so divine and sow it in Sandor's fallow earth? 

He knew, of course, but he would never admit it to himself. 

On the far side of the cabin, Sandor dropped from the saddle. He couldn't hold himself upright on it anymore, so he decided to give his legs a try. He hauled up a bucketful of water from the well to keep Lady and Stranger busy, then began a cautious search of his property grounds. He lifted his face to the jammy, starlit sky. 

He took one, long sniff. 

_The barn._

The tree, his perfect tree, was somehow in the barn. He knew the way, part-blind, to the other side of the cabin, and down twenty paces. But as he walked, his steps began to stagger. The heels of his boots picked up loose rocks and churned them as he dragged his feet. He nearly collapsed onto the barn's side door, lungs ablaze. He fished into his vest pocket for his kerchief. He tied it to cover his nose and mouth, to make sure his legs kept working. 

His fingers shook as he unlatched the iron door handle and slid it open, inch by slow inch. He gave himself a gap just wide enough to shimmy through sideways. 

The second he squeezed inside, he went well and truly blind. A scent could do that. Happened to him once before, when the first girl he doted on, a trite southern thing, gave him a good luck kiss on the eve of battle. She didn't smell so good after Sandor learned her guts were rotten. 

But still, blind. A full whiteout of the senses. Sandor's ears rang, his heart raced, his breath stopped, and his eyes held only the brightest stars. The Gods had gifted him more than a tree—they had delivered an orchard. He couldn't draw breath because the air itself was pulp, sticky wet flesh that parted like butter between his teeth. His mouth hung agape. He scraped down the insides of his cheeks with a wet tongue and chewed, collecting what sustenance he could from behind his cotton kerchief. 

And somehow, somehow, he knew the girl was up. She was winged, sent from the heavens above. His feet forced him to the ladder that led to the loft. His boots found rung after rung, and he heaved his weight higher and higher yet. But when he reached the top, and unfolded to his full height, a funny thing happened. A new thing. 

A new type of blind. 

Sandor couldn't smell the orchard anymore. The trees splintered to kindling. Overripe fruit puddled back to dirt. The world disappeared, and left behind a single, sweet note. It was the perilous delicacy of a peach blossom, fallen to earth. 

Sandor’s flower was curled up tight in a haypile. Hair of flame laid scattered at her back. Porcelain skin glowed in slatted moonlight like the purest snow. She was the smallest little omega Sandor had ever seen, but even so, he knew the scent that hid between her petals. 

She was an omega in heat. 

And worse— 

She was an omega in need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a vibe? Next chapter is drafted and ready if we're feeling hungry, lol. It'll be spicy from the get-go.


	2. Good Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor tends to his bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! 
> 
> I am thrilled that y'all are interested in SanSan A/B/O. This story has been an absolute delight to write so far, and I am so excited to share this next chapter. Some context for folks who aren't super familiar with omegaverse lore - heat is the most vulnerable time for an omega. For lack of a better description, Sansa is basically sick with horny. Heat makes you lethargic, often feverish, and just downright, ovaries-to-the-wall horny. I'll say it: her body wants babies (pups, in omegaverse terms). So I'm really launching into the juiciest bits here, because, if you couldn't tell, I'm on a mission to create some of the horniest content known to humankind. 
> 
> On that note, here's the next installment. Enjoy 🤠

**Sandor**

Instinct took over. 

Like a moth to flame, Sandor crossed the loft in three broad strides and fell to his knees at the girl’s back. He pulled his kerchief down—he needed every drop of her scent. He took his hat off too, set it behind him on a nearby bale. Then he scooped her fiery curls in one handful, pressed them to his face, and breathed in deep.

He exhaled a rumbling growl. 

_Mine._

He put her hair aside for later. Then he wrapped a palm over her frail shoulder and lowered his ear to her mouth. He felt slow, wispy breath. Heard a fluttering pulse. Alive _._ Good. Asleep, or knocked out cold. It didn’t matter, because once Sandor was already down there, his good cheek hovering over her high, lacy neckline, instinct _raged_. 

He pressed her onto her back and was over her in an instant, straddling her. This little peach blossom was his, all his. He wanted to devour, but before you devoured, you had to prune. Sandor needed his peach to be pretty. He needed her to be safe. 

She had a set of scratches along her jaw. A couple more on her hands. Her dress was rumpled, stained with mud at the hem. But no blood. No bones at odd angles. And most importantly—no bite. Sandor pried her collar down with a finger to check. All clear. 

His little omega was unclaimed. 

So Sandor cleaned her up. He licked the patches of dirt from her full, rosy cheeks, fevered beneath his tongue. He nursed the scratches on her jaw, scabbed, healing. Good. 

He opened his mouth wide over her bare neck. He set his teeth there. He even let them sink into her tender, yielding flesh, but just a little. Gods, he wanted her. He wanted a bite of this ripe peach. If he took his bite, he could keep her. That was the law. Contestable, maybe, but binding. Even so, he hesitated—slobber spilled from his maw and dripped down into the girl’s hair. He couldn’t bring his teeth to part her pulp. Wasn't right if the girl was knocked cold. Better if she bit first—no court could fight that.

Sandor closed up. 

He put his cheek to her neck instead, and basked in his puddle of spit. Oh Gods, it was good. After he laid his scent there, he worked his way down, over a stiff bodice that trapped two tender budding breasts. Sandor swirled his good cheek on those too, borrowing the girl’s softness. He would have put his scars on her—they weren’t hurting so much with her scent in his nose—but they might have cracked during the ride. He didn’t want to get blood on her pretty dress. She wore fine satin, his peach. It covered her arms and down to her little leather boots. 

Sandor went lower, yes ser. He buried his nose in her little belly. Her feeble breath pushed him back; he liked that. What he liked more was thinking of a bigger belly. He pictured his small peach stuffed with fresh cream. Seed taking root, sprouting. She smelled perfect. Sandor smelled strength on her. She could take him, every inch. The knot, too. 

Sandor’s groan undid him. He wasn’t sure if he was actually going to hoist those shiny skirts and stick himself inside her, but he didn’t get the chance. He brought his nose down to the mound between her legs, cloaked in dampened fabric. He was thinking of juicy red fruit. He was thinking of a hard pit in the center. He took her hips in his hands, drank her scent in belly-deep. 

His cock lunged, and he unleashed a groan into folds of satin. 

The girl woke up. 

She _screamed_. 

Fair. But Sandor hated the sound, and he especially hated how her wide eyes pooled with tears. They spilled down her flushed cheeks, then the sobs started. She tried to scramble backwards, but she wasn’t going anywhere with Sandor’s fingers sunk into her hips. So she tried throwing straw at him instead, pitiful handfuls that only served to dirty her skirts. 

Sandor got tired of the struggle. He trapped her wrists in his hands and yanked her up until their noses touched. “ _Stop_ ,” he growled into her trembling lips. 

She surrendered of course. Omegas weren’t bred to put up a fight when an alpha barked like that. But then she stared. 

It was far worse. 

Sandor knew that look. He’d be hard-pressed to find someone who _didn’t_ give him that look. The girl was done sobbing, but she cried. Pretty, sparkling tears fell from her eyes as they searched his scars. Sandor had found himself a peach. She had found a beast. A shit trade, that. Sandor’s gut turned to cold stone. He let go of her wrists. He dropped back to the bale where he had left his hat, and put it right back on. He made sure his hair was plastered to the bad side of his face. 

The girl, believe or not, lifted her wrists to her nose. She breathed in, and her face twisted. Her thighs shifted beneath her dress, and she mashed a palm down between them. When she looked back up, she was frowning. 

“It’s you,” she breathed. 

“It’s me,” Sandor replied. 

“But you’re—you’re—” 

“Ugly. I know.” 

The girl whimpered. It was a pathetic noise, but Sandor’s cock sure liked it. He should take her—no one could stop him. He wanted his damn pie, tears or no tears. She’d be wet no matter what. As if she heard him, her cries got loud again. She rubbed her eyes with her fists like a sad little pup and wailed, “It hurts.” 

Sandor breathed out a growl. “Where?” he rasped. 

Her hand slid timidly down past her breasts and belly, and landed back between her legs. Sandor’s blood boiled. His cock threatened to break free from its canvas confines. She needed release, bad, and Sandor could give it to her alright. She was scarcely more than arm’s length away. One tug to her little skirts and— 

Sandor cleared up his throat with a cough, then spit a mouthful of peach pulp down to the barn floor. _Splat._ Better. 

“Where’s your keeper, little bird?” he asked through tight teeth. 

“I’m not a bird,” she whined. 

“Then how did you fly so far?” 

The girl shook her head, sporting a true champion’s pout. A sad little bird. Lonely, maybe. She curled back up again, wrapping her arms around her legs and dropping her head to her knees. “I’m Sansa,” she said to her skirts. “And everything hurts. You made it hurt worse.” 

Sandor hated the sound of that. "I'll make it better," he offered. He stuck out his hand to give her something to sniff. The girl perked up, but didn't accept. So he tried his nice voice, his calming voice, the one the girls at the Unicorn liked. "I know I'm scary, little bird. But I'm a good alpha. I promise." 

That got her to take his hand. The bird held his palm face up, her little hands curled on either side of it. She lowered her nose, inhaled, then whimpered. "Please help me," she said. 

"Can I touch?" 

The girl nodded, even tugged Sandor forward a bit. He put his legs aside hers, a big cage for a tiny bird. When he fumbled with her hem, she whispered, "Don't look." 

Easy enough. Didn't take sight to know how bad the sweet girl had it. Heat radiated from between her legs like a hearth. As Sandor's hand slid between them, his knuckles grazed the slickness of her inner thighs—a veritable flood of her own juices—and _no drawers_. Kindly, he bit back a groan. The girl gave him a look, though. She could smell it. Him. It was full dark now, but if she really squinted, she'd see his bulge in the moonlight. No shame in it. Better in his pants than... _elsewhere_.

When his fingers landed on her dewy, inflamed flesh, his groan escaped. "Oh, little bird," he growled. 

"What is it?" she peeped.

"You're swollen, bad. Do you know how—have you ever—" 

Sandor blushed like a damn boy. Thankfully, the girl shook her head at him, but she frowned again. "It's my first time," she quietly said. 

Sandor's fingers retreated. He shouldn't—right? A pretty omega like this must have dozens of alphas clambering up her trunk, groping at her branches. Rich ones too, with suits to match her dress. And what of her alpha father? When was he going to come knocking on Sandor's door, looking for his sweet peach of a daughter? 

But the girl looked up at him a different way this time. Her eyes were all watery, her little brows scrunched together. "Please, ser," she begged. "I need help." 

Sandor sighed. He took his fingers, glistening, out from her skirts. He opened his arms and beckoned to her. "Come here, sweet girl." 

She was a good little bird. She crawled over to him and curled up his lap. Her backside rested where his cock snaked down his thigh. Her legs draped over the other. She pressed her face against his sweat-damp shirt, and clutched at it with her little fingers. Sandor let her breathe him in for a few minutes, get adjusted to his scent. If it was her first heat, her father would be the only other alpha she'd known so close. Potent stuff, alpha stench. Frightening to unplucked peaches. 

"I think I'm ready," she said at last. "But be gentle. And don't look." 

Sandor grunted. He wasn't gonna try anything funny with the girl. His cock sure wanted it, but his cock would survive just fine. What he wanted more was to help the poor thing. Heat in the wild—a brutal prospect. Clansmen could have found her first and savaged her. But they didn't. Sandor had her now, his precious peach. He would treat her right, like a tender spring blossom, a fragile drop of snow. 

His fingers trembled as they worked back beneath her skirts. He went nice and slow. Stroked her slippery thighs, got her to relax into him. "Good girl," he soothed. She liked that. She shifted her hips and opened up a bit. Oh, she was swollen alright. Might be the worst Sandor had ever seen, if he was even seeing it. But he was a dutiful alpha who gave her touch only. Her petals were slick and warm, puffed right open. Sandor swirled a finger around her bud first. It was stiff with blood, a little beating heart. It pulsed harder the more he circled and pressed, swishing the sticky pond it swam in. The girl's breath came faster against his chest. Good. 

His finger drifted to her entrance, the wellspring of her sweet juices, and Gods, did they flow. The poor thing. She needed something inside of her, something bigger than Sandor's finger. It was big enough to start though—she was yet unfurled. His middle finger stretched her as it plunged inside, and the bird let out a little moan. Sandor put a kiss in her hair. 

"Good girl," he said again.

He didn't move his mouth from the top of her head. If she got his hand, he wanted her sweetness in return. It kept his cock nice and stiff. He left his finger buried inside her for a minute, felt her walls contract and release around him. She was trying to take him in, the naughty girl. So he pressed up, there was a nice spot there he knew about. Worked like a charm. She let out a bigger moan this time, and her slender thighs clenched around his wrist. 

They braced him as he pushed up, and around, and deep as he could go. When that didn't seem like enough, he thrust a second finger inside her. He put twice the strength on her favorite spot, then dropped his thumb to her bud. That _really_ got her going. Her breath was all whimpers, these pretty kitten noises. She murmured into his shirt, and tugged it so fiercely she dragged him down into her. His lips parted at the crown of her head. He let his tongue and teeth rest against her hair. 

Then the girl started to squirm. 

She shifted her back against his leg, and delivered the most agonizing friction to his achy cock. Sandor teased her right back. He pressed harder, delved deeper, extracted as much juice as he could. Those contractions were getting stronger, closer together. And was it Sandor's imagination, or was she getting hotter? Her pulse glowed down there, red-hot with all that blood. It can get bad if you don't take care of it. Sandor was taking care of it, her, oh yes he was. He was showing her a real good time. Her _first_ time. 

"Ooooh," she moaned, and that was the end of it. She burst. Her thighs squeezed together as her little cunt throbbed, and throbbed, and throbbed. A torrent of her water gushed down around Sandor's fingers and soaked straight through her skirts. She arched up her back, bore down into his meat with enough pressure to send him right over the edge. 

He burst, too. Warm seed shot down the side of his leg, down to his knee. His cock writhed, greedy, but satisfied for the time being. Sandor groaned. He pulled the bird in close. _His_ bird. She flew down from the heavens above. A blessing, in a life that hadn't known many blessings. Sandor took his hand from inside her, then cradled her neck with his slick fingers. Her skin was especially pretty there, pale and unblemished. Unclaimed, for now. 

The little bird mumbled something to Sandor's chest. 

"What's that?" he asked. 

She unstuck her head from beneath his chin, and peered up at him. "I said, you're a good alpha." 

Sandor's heart skipped a beat. Didn't make sense, because blood still pushed up and flooded the good half of his face. "You're a better bird," he replied. 

She pouted a bit. "I'm Sansa," she said. "And I don't even know your name." 

"Sandor," he grumbled. 

"Sandor," she chirped back. She put her tiny fingertip to his nose. "The good alpha." 

Sandor snapped at her finger, and she giggled. She traced the stubbled line of his jaw, but stopped where his flesh turned black, and ran her finger down his neck. She pressed her palm there, soft as snow. She smiled sweetly up at him. "Will you keep me, Sandor?" she asked. "Pretty please?" 

Sandor merely grunted, but he stood, and helped the girl up too. She clutched his forearms as he dusted the hay from her skirts. He tried to pry her hands off him so he could get down the ladder, but her knees buckled without his support. Sandor caught her waist before she collapsed to the floor. "Easy, little bird," he said. "Did you walk all this way?" 

Sansa nodded weakly. "From the train." 

Sandor's gut flopped over. That was fifty miles. Fifty goddamn treacherous, mountainous miles. His girl had grit. He hoisted her up, and held her with an arm beneath her buttocks so that she clung to his side, soft flesh on a hard pit. "Hold on tight," he told her. 

It was a tricky business, climbing down the ladder one handed, backwards and blind, with a delicate creature on his hip, but Sandor managed. He found solid footing and navigated out from the barn to the cabin. He knew his way in the light of the waxing moon. He carried his bird up the rickety porch steps to the main room, and set her gently down in a chair by the hearth. He had to get the fire going right quick of course, so the girl didn't freeze.

After the kindling caught and Sandor threw a couple logs on, he fetched the knit blanket he kept at the foot of his bed. Didn't warm him up none—it was Margaery's, from so long ago. A sentimental thing mostly. Sansa looked real pretty in it. Her hair mirrored the fire, and her cheeks glowed a full rosy red. She was smiling too, a sleepy smile. She aimed it straight at Sandor. 

"Can I have some cake, please?" she asked. 

Sandor laughed. "You take me for a baker, is it? I haven't bought sugar my whole sorry life." 

Her smile disappeared in an instant. "I'll make you something sweet, little bird," Sandor recovered. He picked up her face and brushed his thumb over her lips. "Don't you fret." 

He didn't have sugar, but he had honey. Wildflower honey, from the market up in Hornvale. Liquid gold. He hooked the kettle over the hearth and got some winter wheat bubbling nicely. When the grains swelled and split, he stirred in a couple spoonfuls of honey. He was feeling particularly generous, so after he piled the porridge in a wooden bowl, he stuck a pat of butter right on top. A real treat. 

His sweet peach liked it. She ate slowly, chewing and swallowing delicate bites like a proper lady. While she did that, Sandor had his chance to tend to Stranger. He got his stallion undressed and cozied up in the stable for the night. He gave him an extra armful of hay for his good work during the drive, and of course he got a kiss good night. Damn good horse, that Stranger. 

Lady followed Sandor back inside the cabin. She immediately padded to Sansa's side and pawed at her porridge. "Lady, down," Sandor called. Lady gave him an insolent look, then put a long lick across the girl's knuckles. 

Sansa giggled. "Lady, down," she chirped. 

The bitch did as she was told. Sat on her fluffy behind and smiled so wide her tongue fell out. And Sansa, the naughty little bird, set her bowl on the floor to feed Lady her leftovers. When she noticed Sandor's narrowed eyes, she smirked. 

"I'm ready for bed," she told him, then stretched out her arms expectantly. 

She was a smart bird, that's what. Sandor came to her. She held his shoulders as he scooped her from the chair into his arms, still bundled in her blanket. She was light as a peach blossom. It almost felt as if Sandor carried nothing but sweet-smelling air down the hall. The girl was over him like a cloud. And before Sandor knew, her soft little face nuzzled into his neck. Her cold nose pressed right down on his patch of skin that stunk the most. 

He’d never had a girl scent him. He liked it. He liked it a lot. 

When he pushed open the door to his bedroom, Sansa whimpered like she had in the loft and shrunk into him—his musk had rained down like a half ton of brick. "Too much?" Sandor asked. She nodded against his chest. "Alright. We'll do the other.

The other had been his room as a boy, his and Gregor's. It was empty now, except for a narrow pine bed with a leather bound chest at its foot. Sandor set the girl down on the edge of the bed, and she looked up at him, unblinking. 

“My boots, please,” she said, kicking out her heels. 

Sandor grumbled, but knelt, and went to work unlacing her dusty leather boots. They were small, fit for a doll. She winced when he tugged off the first one, so he went real slow with the next. When he rolled down her stockings, he realized why all the fuss—her little toes were covered in angry blisters. 

“Oh, little bird,” he breathed. He didn’t know how to make this better. Nothing to do with blisters but wait them out. But the girl frowned down at him so hard, he knew he had to think of something. So he picked up her feet, both at once, and brought them to his mouth. They were funky little fruits, but he kissed them. Put lots of soft little kisses all over her toes, until he got a giggle out of her. He kissed harder, everywhere, down to her heels and up her ankles. He even licked her a bit, so he could hear more of her pretty noises. He had started nipping at the ball of bone that stuck from her ankle when she batted the top of his hat and whined, “Stop. I’m not dinner.” 

He was a good alpha, so he put her feet down. He pulled back the covers for her, and guided her head down to her pillow. As soon as he pulled the well-worn quilt to her chin, Lady hopped up and curled right beside her. Took up damn near half the mattress. 

"Lady," Sandor warned. But Sansa hugged the dog, and let her lay dozens of sloppy kisses on her lips. Sandor sighed. "Fine, she can stay. But if she starts to whine in her sleep, rub her belly. She likes that." 

Sansa nodded, and pressed her face into Lady's black fur coat. Sandor lingered beside the bed. He wanted the girl’s face in his hair. He wanted to lick her lips clean of honey. He wanted to lick every pretty inch of her skin. It would be creamy, and smooth, and soft. Her little cunt had been so silky to the touch.

Imagine the taste. 

"Are you going to watch me all night?" the girl mumbled, eyes shut. 

Sandor turned red. He was going to say something, really, but she went on, "It's alright if you do, but a chair would be more comfortable. Or maybe the floor, don't you think?" 

Sandor forced a crude breath through his nose, nostrils flared. The girl didn’t spare him a glance. She was good at feigning sleep, or maybe she was that exhausted. So he stalked to the door—he was done with her spoiled antics, heat or no heat. But right before he stormed out, he looked back. What a sight, that sweet, fiery blossom snuggled up with his favorite gal. His heart did that thing again, stopping and thumping like a metronome awry. It felt off, but good at the same time. His lips twitched at the corner. He put a palm to his neck, right where the girl’s face had been. 

“Good night, little peach,” he grumbled to his boots, before leaving her in the dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Up next - Sansa's POV 😍 I wonder what's on her mind...


	3. Lady Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa builds her nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! 
> 
> Welcome to the first Sansa POV chapter - I'm really excited about this one, I've come to love writing her character. I'll be focusing on Sansa's nest in this one, which, for those unfamiliar, is pretty much a safe space for omegas to spend time, especially while in heat or pregnant. Other than that, I don't have much else to add! 
> 
> Enjoy 🤠

**Sansa**

Sansa roused to the sound of muffled shouts. 

“How long have you been hiding her?” came a shrill voice. 

“Not hiding. One night,” came another voice, in a low, powerful rasp. Her alpha. 

The door flew open. A wrinkled crone scuttled in, tall and bony, a plain black dress loose on her hunched shoulders. Her eyes went to the empty bed first, then to Sansa’s corner. She had ended up here on the floor, huddled against the wall, with her blankets and Lady. She curled a protective arm around the fluffy dog, who growled on her behalf.

The crone's eyes narrowed. “You didn’t even help her nest, hm?” she hissed behind her, scowling. She switched back to a smile as she approached Sansa and knelt at her side. Sandor appeared in the doorway, his muscular arms crossed, his heavy brow sloped downward. 

“Hello, sweetling,” the old lady said. “I’m Mrs. Mary Lydden, the neighbor down the way.” 

She held out a pruny hand, but Sansa retreated deeper into her corner. She was too tired for more strangers. Her body ached from her journey, and worse, her first lady’s tide. Mother had passed too soon to warn her—it _hurt_. Her head swam like bubbling stew so hot she sweat all over. Worst was the heat between her legs, like the summer sun. It blazed now, burning up her center. She needed her alpha’s hand again, to make it better. 

But the crone blocked her path. 

“Who do you belong to?” she asked, not unkindly. 

Sansa looked to Sandor, but he looked down the hall. “No one,” Sansa whispered. 

Mrs. Lydden hemmed. “Well, that won’t do. I’m taking you with me.” 

“ _No!_ ” Both Sansa and Sandor called at once. This time, he did look at Sansa. He held her with his gleaming grey eyes, and growled, “The girl stays here.” 

The old hen certainly wasn’t going to disobey a big strong alpha like Sandor. This was _his_ house, not hers. She wouldn’t dare start a fight. She clucked a bit instead. “It won’t do, it simply won’t do. Oh, the impropriety, Maiden forgive me.” 

Sansa’s eyes began to water. She hated impropriety too. She was a very, very good girl. A true lady. A Stark. She didn’t want this either, not truly. It was stepfather’s fault. Sansa hated him worse. He was going to match her with a rotten beta who smelled like off cheese. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Nothing had been fair since before the war, since before father died. 

So Sansa cried. What else was there to do? 

“Oh, dear me,” Mrs. Lydden cooed. “Did he touch you?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sansa wailed. She clasped her hands to her face and spilled a sob into her fingers. It was stepfather who warned her of the madness of a lady’s tide. “They’ll be on you like a bitch,” he had said, while they sat side by side on the train headed east. “You’ll reek.”

So she was mad and smelly and achy in places she scarcely knew about. Sandor was the one who knew. He was the one who helped. Was it so horrible? He smelled ever so nice, like a mighty pine. He was her tree. He was strong and tall and rather bristly. But very good smelling, if not a little sticky. Sansa liked him. She liked being touched last night. She wanted to be touched right now, and held against his big swollen chest. It was really, really nice. 

The mean old lady couldn’t take Sandor away from her, no matter the scandal, and she must have known. She stood, smoothed her skirts, and crossed back to him. Lady trailed at her heels, suspicious. 

“If you have any decency, you’ll keep your hands to yourself,” she told Sandor. “A girl so delicate is bound to be promised. And you best carve a prosthesis.” Mrs. Lydden dropped her voice to whisper, but Sansa heard her say, “She’s small, Clegane. Her hands look weak. If there’s too much blood, an imbalance of the humors, she could—” 

“I know,” Sandor snarled. “I’ll make the damn prosthesis. Won’t lay a hand on her.” 

“Very well.” Mrs. Lydden straightened her warped spine, and turned once more to Sansa. “If there’s anything you need, sweetling, I’m a mile down the lane.” 

“Cake,” Sansa breathed. “Sandor wouldn’t give me any.” 

“Starving the girl, are you?” Mrs. Lydden scolded. Sandor answered her with an annoyed grunt, so she told Sansa, “I’ll bring you sweets. And a few dresses, if you like. A nightgown too, yes, you ought not to leave your nest.” 

Sansa nodded, and tried to smile. Too much work. So she answered with a weak, “Yes, please.” 

With one final cluck, and a curt nod to Sandor, Mrs. Lydden disappeared down the hall. The front door opened and closed with a clatter. Then it was quiet. Then it was only Sansa in her little corner, and Sandor looming in the doorway. 

He was very big—had she already mentioned that? He was actually the biggest, widest, darkest, tallest man that Sansa had ever known. And the scariest, on top of it all. The left half of his face was a burnt black mess. A bone stuck out at the corner of his jaw. His bones made so many sharp angles, even the ones covered with uncooked skin. The right side of his face was dark too, shadowy and stubbled beneath the ridge of his cheek. 

Truly, Sansa didn’t understand his face. She had never seen anything like it. _Ugly_ , she wanted to call him. But that’s what a silly girl would say. Sansa, a full grown lady, in the midst of her first lady’s tide, had another word for him: breathtaking. Like a big possessive alpha, he stole all her air, and replaced it with his own, much stinkier air. 

He was doing it now, standing tall, filling up _her_ territory with _his_ smelly musk. He took two slow strides and landed in front of her. Then he really was a tree. Sansa was a little bird. She was still quite afraid, so she watched his big black boots. The pulse between her legs throbbed like its own wild creature, then she remembered—he wasn’t going to lay his hands on her. 

Sansa began to cry. It hurt so terribly. She only wanted to be touched. 

“Little bird,” he called down to her. Why was he so soft? He was a gentle alpha, like Father. Sansa missed her father, her favorite tree, the best smelling one. She missed his arms. She cried harder, and she still couldn’t breathe, and her skin was flushed enough to melt. She clapped her hands to her face because she at least wanted to keep her cheeks. That’s where Father used to kiss her. 

“Come now, little bird,” Sandor said. 

Two strong hands landed on Sansa’s ears, and she peeked between her fingers. He had dropped to one knee before her. His eyes shone bright, filled with her reflection. He had lied to Mrs. Lydden about his hands, and Sansa didn’t mind one bit. She was stricken with her tide. 

“W-what’s a prosthesis?” she asked, peering up at him. 

His jaw tensed, and he swallowed. “Little bird,” he answered, low, in a growl. “Did your mother not teach you?” 

Sansa shook her head. Not even her governess, Miss Mordane, would speak of such things. Sandor sighed, and pried Sansa’s hands from her cheeks. He put his hands there instead—he was going to help her skin stay in place, because he was a good alpha. He wiped away her tears with his thumbs. 

“It’s supposed to—it looks like—” he glanced down on himself, and then Sansa knew. Her blood burned. It flooded her cheeks and rushed between her legs like a river of liquid flame. She whimpered. 

He was big everywhere. There was something especially big that ran down his thigh—

 _A branch._

_Scary._

“It’s too big,” Sansa whispered. 

Sandor laughed at her. “They can be small, little bird. I’ll carve you one this afternoon. But first,” he picked up her chin, so she could see him smile softly down at her. Nothing to be afraid of. “We need to fix up your nest.” 

Oh, Sandor was so good at helping. He asked what Sansa wanted in her nest. The answer was easy: soft things. So he went off to his room, and came back with an armful of pillows and blankets. He had so many blankets, knit ones that smelled old and loved. His pillows were stuffed with goose down, perfectly squishy and buttery soft. He piled all of those on top of the plush wool-filled mattress he pulled from the bed. Everything carried his scent. It was her own little forest—almost. When she crawled inside, she realized— 

“It’s too big.” 

Sansa frowned. She liked the wooden walls at her back, but the other two sides of her nest were far too open. Exposed, like an alpine field. 

Sandor grunted. He left for a minute. He had gone to the barn; heavy steps crunched on the dry ground outside the window. He returned with an armful of fabric, a hammer, and a shirt pocket bulging with nails. He got busy. He pounded the fabric, a massive length of canvas, into the wooden crossbeams that held up the roof. He was so tall that he had no trouble reaching. He got a little sweaty, and a lot stinker, as he arranged the canvas into a new, billowy ceiling. He draped it so it formed two more walls, softer ones, with a slight gap to serve as her door. 

It was perfect. 

When Sandor was done, he pulled the door flap open and poked his head inside. “Good?” he asked. 

Sansa smiled. Her alpha had earned a pretty smile. “Will you touch me now, please?” 

She asked very sweetly, but Sandor shook his head. Sansa’s lips fell down. Of course—it was improper, and she was a lady. She didn’t want to be touched. Not there. Not by Sandor. Only by her mate, her future alpha husband. 

“I think you ought to try for yourself, little bird. Try it this morning, and I’ll get your little cock carved up and ready for you tonight. Would you like that?" 

“No,” Sansa moped. “What if—what if you held me?” 

“Little bird,” Sandor growled. “I’ve got work to do around the ranch. Animals to keep.” 

“But I’m a _bird_. You’re supposed to keep _me._ ” 

Sandor dropped to his knees. He invaded her forest. He pushed past her canvas walls and settled so close his stinky breath dropped like sap to her forehead. He stuck a finger beneath her chin and lifted it. “You’re going to be a good little bird for me," he told her in his nice voice. “I’m going to bring you sweet bird treats to peck at. You’re going to pet your pretty petals, all on your own. And if you do that, I promise I’ll hold you.”

“For a long time?” 

“For a really long time.” 

“Hours?” 

“Hours.” 

“Fine,” Sansa said. “I’ll be good.” 

Sandor kept his word. He brought her steamy brown bread drenched in butter and smothered with blackberry jam, plus a mug of fresh milk. But she didn't have anywhere to eat in her nest—it was far too lumpy inside. Sandor helped. He dragged the brown leather trunk over and slid it through the canvas, against the short end of her mattress. _A table_. 

It was perfect. He lingered to watch her eat, just for a minute, until Sansa asked about the other animals that needed his help. Then he suddenly had somewhere to be. Sansa picked at her bread and sipped some milk, but her tummy filled up fast. She was so hot there, in her insides. The feeling had come on yesterday afternoon, in that final stretch of her horrible two day walk. Maybe it was three. It didn't matter—the feeling was there. It got stronger and stronger the closer she got. To what, she wasn't certain. Not until she woke up covered in hay, with a dark monster between her thighs, gobbling her up. 

A monster that smelled divine. 

He made her ache so terribly there, where her legs met. Where she made water, but not quite. There was a second heart, a little one, that throbbed like a coal ablaze. Truthfully, there was water too. Sticky water. Her own sap. It ran from her center like a wanton stream, only to sully her chemise and her skirts, and her drawers worst of all. 

Curious, Sansa reclined in her pillows. She lifted her hem, and dipped a hand beneath, to see what was happening down there. 

Her heart stopped. 

Her drawers—they were gone. Oh they had been dreadful yesterday, crusty almost, but the evening was a fevered haze. Had Sandor stolen them? How long had he had her, asleep? Did he take her maidenhead while he was licking and nuzzling and drinking her up? 

Sansa whimpered. These thoughts—oh they should horrify her, and they did, truly. They set her pulse on fire. It was frightening. She had never been more filthy in her life. She’d worn the same dress since her flight from stepfather, into the wild. Now her prettiest green satin was stale with sweat, too hot, and far too tight. She needed air, fresh forest air. 

Sansa pulled open the front closures on her bodice, and let her breasts spill out, loosely contained by her white puff-sleeved chemise. She shimmied her bodice off entirely, and tossed it from her nest. Much better. She felt herself cooling by the second, but one place still raged.

Sansa had promised Sandor she would be good. Timidly, she reached back up her skirts. She probed her petals, slick with dew. Sandor knew what they were called. Maybe he had heard the song too, _Her Little Flower_. Sansa had learned it from Theon, because he knew the dirtiest things. Flowers were pretty, he said, but they still grew from the ground. 

Here’s how the song went: first, you parted your petals. Quite easy, when they were already swollen open. Hidden inside was your little bud, with a heart of its own. Below, a rosy center. That’s where the dew came from. It dripped. It _poured_. Sansa swirled her dew with a cautious fingertip, the way Sandor had done. It felt so nice to run that glossy liquid over her achy, inflamed skin. Like a sweet glaze on a hot bun. Sansa was sweet—that’s what Sandor had called her. 

_Sweet girl_. 

Sansa shuddered. He had such a rough voice, low and craggy, but he could make it so soft, like a pond stone lapsed smooth. Her bud loved thoughts of Sandor, so she pictured him as she circled it, slowly. This wasn’t so hard. But Sandor’s fingers had been much stronger. She pressed down to mimic him, and mewled. Her fires flared. 

She was afraid, like she was last night, that she would simply burn up. Even so, she kept on. She rode the tides that churned inside, wave after fiery wave. Those waves rose up high, the waters became stormy, dramatic. They lifted Sansa up, and up, and up. She knew this feeling—she was a lady grown. So stroked herself faster, pushed three fingertips down into her tender bud. 

She crested the tallest wave yet, one so high it touched the clouds, and then she dropped, crashed, into beautiful, cool oblivion. She had made herself into a sea. 

Sansa breathed. It took a few moments for her heart to settle, both the one in her chest, and the one down below. But as soon as they did, the heat returned. Her bud was possessed, greedy for touch. 

But this was Sansa’s nest, and inside it, she could do as she pleased. 

So she did. 

She gave her best attempt at taming that small, hungry beast. 

First she tried Sandor’s way, fingers on her bud. It was quite nice, and worked the first three times, even though her fingers weren’t nearly as powerful as his. It worked because she was thinking of Sandor, every part of him. She thought of his wide, muscular chest. She thought of his scent, and the way it seemed to cascade from his neck. In a moment of weakness, she even thought of his branch. It was _so_ _big_. Big things were terrifying. 

Imagine that, _uncloaked_. 

That thought turned Sansa into a thousand seas, a world of water. When she calmed from her release, she scrambled to find something to tidy herself up. She was a wild thing now, so she took Sandor’s quilt, and stuffed it between her legs. Better to put her water there than in her skirts. 

But the quilt was a new feeling. It gave her friction too. Sansa shifted from her back to her belly. Oh, this was nice. Her body weight did the work for her—she didn’t have to press. All she had to do was squeeze her thighs tight around the cotton bundle, and drop her hips down against it. Sansa started with long, slow movements. She shuddered after each one—if her bud was a star, it might truly explode. But then Sansa didn’t care; she wanted to explode. She ground herself into the quilt faster. She even snuck a hand behind her, up her skirts, to tease her center. 

One touch, and she burst. She moaned as rode her mount, grinding her poor bud until it screamed, thoroughly depleted. Sansa mopped the sweat from her brow with an equally damp forearm, and collapsed in a heap of blankets. 

She fell asleep for a while, a blissful sleep, with bright afternoon light pushing through her canvas curtains, and birds singing beyond the cabin walls. 

She woke, hair mussed into a reddish cloud around her, mouth dry. 

And that silly bud was hungry again. 

Sansa pried the quilt out from between her legs, soaked. She put it aside. She drank the rest of her milk, then tried to use her fingers for a while. She rubbed her bud, and even dipped inside her center. Her fingers weren’t nearly long enough to work as Sandor’s had. She wanted something better. 

She glanced to the trunk. 

She had an idea. 

It was a very naughty idea—perhaps the naughtiest idea Sansa had ever had. But again—this was _her_ nest. So she scooted onto her knees, and split her legs so they lined the sides of the trunk. Then she lowered herself down, resting her bud on the brass corner fitting. 

Oh, Maiden forgive, it was divine. 

Sansa draped herself over the trunk, hugged it almost, as she began to thrust her hips forward against hard metal. Her skirts and petals cushioned her bud, but her bud still felt everything. It was uncharted territory down there, a delight so pure it put sparkling stars in Sansa’s vision. She swallowed enormous lungfuls of air—if she couldn’t see, she wanted to breathe—but her forest was laden with Sandor. 

Sandor—oh, Sandor. Why did he smell so good? Why could Sansa smell him from miles away, at the train station? His scent was everywhere, that sticky pine. Pine scent was so warm and sharp, bright, green, alive. It was the scent of promise, of stability, of years and years of steady growth. The scent of strength. 

The scent of a powerful, protective tree. 

Sansa’s release broke her. She wailed her way into whiteout oblivion, into the heart of the hottest sun. She lay slumped on the trunk for many long minutes. She reached across, nibbled some bread, and still, she rested. 

Her mind would not quiet, nor her heart, the one trapped inside her ribs. She felt an emptiness grow inside her, up the root of her. It was where a man’s part would go, only she didn’t have a man with her. No alpha to keep her company through her tide. 

Sansa was alone. 

She peeled herself from the sweat-kissed leather, and frowned at the mess in her nest. Blankets askew, a soiled quilt, and everywhere, the stench of her wayward lust. It felt wrong. It smelled like sour milk. Her heart tightened. She didn’t want to be here—she had to get out. 

So she stumbled through the curtains, and staggered barefoot and bodice-less into the hall. 

“Sandor?” she called. 

No reply. 

He wasn’t in the main room, and he didn’t answer when Sansa knocked on the door of his bedroom. Tears pooled hot behind her eyes. She really needed him. She was getting afraid. She was getting very hot. She burst from the cabin, out into the grounds. 

“Sandor?” she tried again. 

But he wouldn’t be able to hear her; she could scarcely stand, let alone shout. Her legs quivered under her weight. Her head filled with cotton fuzz, and spun on her neck. The sky was blue and endless above her. Then she heard it— 

A groan, or a growl, coming from the barn. Of course, the animals. 

She followed that sound, heart pounding, through the cracked-open side door. It was louder inside. It sounded like a fight, a snarling dog, or a lone, rabid beast. It came from the loft. Sansa went to the ladder, and began to climb. It must be Sandor; it smelled as strong as his room up here, a stormcloud of alpha musk. 

And it _was_ Sandor. 

When Sansa reached the top, and peeked up into the loft, he was there, sprawled against a bale of hay. But it was a terrible sight. His pants were low on his hips. He stroked a giant red monster with one of his giant fists. 

And pressed against the scary half of his face—her drawers. 

Sansa screamed, as hard as her lungs would allow. So hard her limbs went slack as straw. 

She fell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, bad dog alert 😳 
> 
> 'Til next time!


	4. Drawers and Branches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor entertains himself in the loft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all 🤠
> 
> Here is some piping hot horny with a side of feels. Enjoy!

**Sandor**

Look, Sandor knew he shouldn't have done it. 

He wasn't planning on it, either. But have you ever shared close quarters with an omega in heat? And not any omega, this omega, this pretty little peach. There was no scent like it. After Sandor put the girl to bed, her smell lingered, and she was the one who had put it there. _She_ had scented _him_. 

As soon as he was alone in his bedroom, he shucked off his clothing and collapsed into bed, hard as a rock. He stuck one hand on his cock, and pressed the other, the one that had been inside the damn girl, over his mouth. He stroked himself and breathed her in. When he got tired of her air, he started to lick. He lapped up every trace of her sweet juices. Stuffed his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean. 

And he came, Gods, he came like he never had before. It was blackout bliss, a night sky of a time. He felt like the moon, full and floating, watching earth from far above. When he crashed back down, he did it all over again. 

He came five times before he fell asleep. He fell asleep with his cock half-hard in his hand, a pile of seed caking on his belly. He slept with the girl in his nose. 

He couldn't escape her. 

Old Lady Lydden's visit dampened things of course. With all the evening's excitement, Sandor had forgotten that she liked to stop by after drives to deliver fresh bread and eggs. He willed himself to softness long enough to see her out, but then it was just him and the girl again, and the old lady had put the fear of the Seven in her. She started crying, afraid of him all over. Sandor smelled it on her—the fear. But he smelled her swollen little pie, too. She was hurting. 

It stiffened him right up, and the bird noticed. 

But he helped her nest—Lydden was right, it was only proper. He woulda done it for the girl the night before, but she looked so sweet curled up with Lady. Thought maybe the bed would do. She was a small creature though, so she needed a small nest, with plenty of softness. Sandor scrounged up his grandmother's knit blankets and even gave the girl his best pillows. Used his last length of canvas to give her nest new walls. And after all his work, you know what she did? 

She asked to be touched, _again_. Like the old lady hadn't come and scolded them both. Sandor could have gobbled her up right then and there, a perfect peach breakfast. But he was a good alpha, and he didn't know where his omega's father was. Where her suitors were. He would keep the bird alive and happy until he could find her pack. He would see her through her heat. 

But he would keep his promise to her, too. 

He'd hold the girl. He'd hold her as much as she liked. 

So he rushed the morning's chores; he couldn't move fast enough. He fed his bird bread with butter and jam, and a cup of milk. He spared a minute to watch her eat—she was a precious thing—then he went off to the barn, and set to work. He had to tend to Stranger, Nymeria, and Grey Wind. Fed and watered them, brushed their coats, got their hooves cleaned up. He mucked the stalls and pitched the dirty shavings. Then he laid fresh pine bedding down and had a rest. He fetched the bottle of whiskey he kept on his tool bench and drank a finger or two, not too much. His nerves weren't so bad with the girl around. He hadn't even thought about booze last night, which was odd, because usually he'd come home and drink himself to sleep. The girl was some kind of remedy. 

It occurred to him that he didn't wake once in the night. No flame but his bird's pretty hair. She had real nice hair. Sandor hadn't known many girls with red hair like that. Maybe he shoulda stayed by her side last night. He could have gotten close, sniffed it a little more. It was so soft to the touch—he wanted it on his face. His burns especially. Good flame. A remedy. 

So the whiskey clouded him up a little, and he couldn't think of much else but her. He wanted to be holding her already, petting her hair while she put her little nose in his neck. He had the wise idea to go fetch fresh hay from the loft. The horses had plenty, but they deserved a little more, or so he told himself. 

This was when things started to get out of hand. The loft reeked of peaches, almost worse that it had last night. It might have been the high noon sun coming down and cooking things up. Sandor got hard again. He didn't get the hay. He started sniffing around, searching for that sweetness. Maybe her juices had dripped out and soaked the floorboards. Maybe there was a puddle somewhere, something to slake his thirst. 

So Sandor ended up on his hands and knees. He knew the spot where he found her—Gods, did that smell divine. He put his face all over the loose bed of hay, drank it down like brown liquor. Before he knew, his pants were unbuttoned, and his hand was on his cock. There was no shame in that—the girl was busy doing the same. 

And what a thought that was. 

Sandor wondered how it was going over there for her. She had small hands; he hoped she could finish herself. She must be doing something right, otherwise she would have come to pester him, ask for his help instead. But of course she was a good little bird, taking care of herself. Petting her petals, teasing that pretty bud. Sandor wished he could see it. She'd be so pink down there, like a little prairie rose. He could look, and not touch. He just wanted to admire it, maybe give it a kiss. Maybe he'd take the damn kiss. 

Sandor shouldn't have thought of stealing kisses from pretty peaches. He emptied a staggering load into Sansa's hay. He mussed it around, tried to cover it up. No use. 

That's when he found them. Through the prickle of dry hay, his fingers touched down on something soft, silky soft. 

_Silk drawers_. 

In _his_ loft, in _his_ barn, on _his_ property. 

They belonged... _to_ _him_.

Sandor stuck them to his nose first thing, rumpled in one big handful. Oh, Seven Goddamn Fiery Hells did they stink. It was peach wine down there, a potent ferment of the girl's fruit. Then he told himself, _Take it slow. No rush here. Enjoy the damn things. That's what rich folk do with wine._

_They savor._

So he found a nice bale to relax on, by the window, but also close enough to the ledge that he could see the door, in case his bird came peeping. He took off his hat, pushed his pants down some to let his sack breathe. And he went to work. 

He started by draping them over his thigh, so he could picture the bird there, perched on his lap. The drawers were small, with a lace trim that would have come down to her little knees. Her heat must have started somewhere in the range, because the silk between the legs was stiff with dry juice. Sandor petted those parts while he stroked himself. He ran his fingers between the legs, through the little gap they leave for ladies to make their water. 

Sandor started thinking of other uses for that gap. His fingers, for one. His mouth could get in there too, and his tongue. 

He could try it now, even. 

So he brought the drawers to face, slow, he was going slow. He rested them there, with the little slit parted at his nose, and he breathed in. His cock throbbed in his fist like hot iron. No sweeter smell had ever existed—but he needed the taste. So he opened his mouth, let his tongue explore silk ridges made hard with dew. He got hungry. He thumped his meat and pulled in an entire mouthful of sticky fabric. Soaked it with his spit, gnawed, twirled his tongue in softness. 

Gods, his cock loved it. See, his cock didn't even need to be inside the bird. His tongue would do. He could part her slender, creamy thighs. He'd pet them so nicely first, then he'd lap up her spilled juice. Make her a clean little bird. She'd like it, ladies always did. Then he'd come for her puffy petals. He'd lick them until she begged him, _begged_ , for his tongue on her bud. He'd go everywhere around it, then he'd take the whole thing at once. What a sweet treat, a little bud like that. It'd be swollen stiff as his cock, aching the same too. He'd have her pulse in his mouth. 

He'd make it burn. 

And just when she thought she was going to finish, he'd plunge his tongue in her center instead. He'd grind her bud with his nose, and drink her juices like ice cold springwater. He'd fill his belly until it ached; he'd piss peach later. That's how much he'd steal from her. 

No— 

It would be a gift. She would surrender her sweet juices. 

Sandor groaned into his silk gag. He took it out, but only so he could rub the spit-soaked drawers on his cock. He glazed himself in their shared stickiness, so warm and slick on his sensitive red flesh, exposed to the dry afternoon air. Gods, he couldn't stop groaning. His gut was greedy. The noises came from deep inside, rough as rock. He squeezed his meat harder, pictured peach pulp splitting at the head of his cock, and then— 

He had the best idea yet. 

He pushed his hair aside, and laid the damp fabric on his burns. Now _there_ was springwater, snowmelt, icy relief on skin that flared like living flame. Fucking hells, it was good. It was like the girl was there, calling his name, begging, needing him, an alpha, more than anything in the whole damn world. She needed his cock, his knot, his seed. 

She needed his pups, inside her. 

She _wanted_ it. 

_A whole bellyful._

He didn't notice her there, at the top of the ladder, until he heard her scream. But there she was, eyes wide, hair tangled, messy, and afraid. 

She fell. 

And Sandor caught her. He lunged across the loft, and landed face first over the ledge, a hand curled around her upper arm. He dragged her up, but she was screaming, squirming. 

She was _topless_. 

Mostly. 

It all happened so fast. He didn't mean to come, but his hand was still on his cock, and the girl was at his side, hitting him, squealing. It was blood-boiling. Her little tits bounced beneath a near see-through layer of white cotton. Two points poked through, and danced at eye level. And her fucking noises, hells. All that whimpering and whining, combined with her dirty little peach-juice paws on his shirt—it pushed Sandor right over the edge, up like the moon again. Seed gushed out onto his hand, to the floorboards, and worst of all, the girl's skirts. 

Oh, she hated that. She opened up and loosed an ear-splitting sob. She was done fighting then. She wilted onto Sandor's chest, and cried. 

"You're awful," she blubbered. "I've never—I've never—it looks _horrible_." 

Sandor grunted. He didn't like that one bit, no ser. He was going to tidy himself up, put his cock away at the very least, but the bird caught his wrist in both her hands. "Why is it so red, so _angry_?" 

"Little bird," Sandor growled. It was true—his cock wouldn't go down, not with her pretty blue eyes on it, wide and shiny as a crystalline lake. And this girl had nerve; he had almost forgotten. She reached out, and put a cold fingertip right on the head. When his cock lunged, she gasped, and got her hand out of there fast. 

"Scary," she said. "Get rid of him."

Sandor did as he was told. He didn't want her looking at him. But then he ran into another problem—his scars. His hair was still over on the right side, leaving the left out plain as day. Or night, rather. A terrible night, filled with monsters and the like, and him, the main attraction. 

The scariest monster of all. 

She reeked of fright. She was a smelly little thing, this heat-stricken pet of his. Even without her stench, there were the tears. She did the kindness of trying to hide them, wipe them away, as she looked on his burns. Sandor worried that she might reach out again, touch him there. She was a handsy girl alright. 

She didn't. She pouted some, then petted his neck. Finally, Sandor's pulse calmed. He gathered his wits and sat, combing his hair back into place. He reached for his hat and put it on. "Why are you up here, little bird?" he asked. 

"Well, I was being good, really good, for such a long time. But then—" she heaved in a breath, then sighed. "I got scared. I thought you were gone." 

Sandor's heart slammed against his ribs. "I'm right here," he replied through set teeth. 

The girl threw herself against him, saddling into his lap, and curling her arms around his middle. She buried her face in his chest and whispered, "Is my cock ready yet?" 

So that's what was on the girl's mind. 

Sandor had to carry her down from the loft, of course, with her sweet little breasts pressed against his chest. When Sandor showed her his wood pile, she turned up her nose. She asked for a pine branch, a whole damn pine branch. Sandor told her he'd have to go hunt down a ponderosa, something reasonably thick, and she insisted on accompanying him. 

"Fine," he grumbled to that. She had been a good bird. 

So they set out. Sandor knew a strong ponderosa, wasn't too far into the wooded edge of his land. No need to take Stranger out for such a short walk. He went to the cabin and helped the little bird get her bodice back on, and put her in one his button-down flannels to keep her cozy. He hoisted her up on his back, and she tuckered right out, didn't make one peep for the ride. Sandor woke her up when they reached his tree. Set her down in a soft patch of needles in the sun. 

She watched him hack at a low hanging branch, thick as his arm, thicker than any cock Sandor had seen, on a man. He'd only brought a hatchet, but two swift chops had the branch on the ground. He turned to the girl, who stared back with big doll eyes, her little mouth agape.

“Another,” she called in her sweet sing-song voice. 

Wasn’t any trouble for him, so Sandor smacked down another branch, just to see her smile. She did, then she clapped her hands together and asked for another, and another, and another. By the tenth branch, Sandor was sweating something fierce. His blood pumped hot in his veins. He knocked one more down, then felt sorry for the damn tree. So he told the girl, “Enough,” and he dropped down, to catch his breath against the pine’s trunk. 

The girl was on him in an instant. She crawled over and straddled his thigh, clamped her little legs right down on him. "Little bird," Sandor warned. His blood was hot _everywhere_ , and her knee nestled into his groin, where his cock was prowling. But she was a naughty bird, who didn't care to listen. She set her hands on his shoulders, dropped her forehead to his chest, and began to grind herself against him. 

"Little bird," Sandor tried again. His hands skirted her waist. He should move her, right? But she wasn't hurting him. Gods truth, she was the one who would be hurting. 

And she was being a good little bird. She was helping herself. 

Sandor helped her a little. He steadied her waist, wrapped his hands around her delicate ribs. He tensed up his thigh too, made it stiff for her. She liked that. She whimpered and clutched at his shirt. She picked up the pace too; the girl could ride. She ground her warm little pie deep against his leg. She took broad strokes and shuddered after each. 

At the end of the next stroke, she mewled, and collapsed against Sandor's chest. Sandor wanted her even closer, so he plucked her up and cradled her in his arms. He set his bad cheek onto her hair, and rested alongside her. She didn't say anything for a while, and Sandor wasn't going to be the one to move her, even with the sun hanging low on the horizon. Her hair gleamed fiery red and orange, its own sunset. Real pretty, just nice to look at and breathe in. 

After a bit the girl stirred. First thing she whispered to Sandor was, "I miss father." 

That knocked the air out of him. Just as Sandor suspected—she did have a keeper. 

A keeper she missed. 

"Where is he?" Sandor asked. _How soon will he be here?_ was what he really wanted to know. 

But the girl answered, "Dead." 

Oh. Sandor shifted a bit, to pull her in tighter. "My father's dead too," he said. 

"I'm sorry to hear that," she whispered back. "Did you love him?" 

"Not really." 

"That's sad." 

"I know." 

Sansa went awfully quiet, so Sandor asked, "Did you love yours?" 

She nodded against his chest, then looked up. Her eyes shone, and she was smiling, a soft one with just the corners of her pink lips pulled up. "He was my dearest friend." 

"Is that so?" 

"Mhm. He used to take me riding at our summer home—we had the prettiest horses, and pretty hills and rivers. We used to have picnics by the river too, teacakes and biscuits and jam and honey. It was the most fun in the summer, because that was before the war. Do you remember the war?" 

"I fought in the war." 

Sansa frowned. "It was _horrible_. I used to have a father, but the president made him fight, and now—now—" Her little face scrunched up, and her breath came in small, shallow sniffs. Sandor pet the back of her head, and finished for her, "He's gone." 

She gave a sad nod. "They're all gone. Mother and Robb and Arya and Bran and baby Rickon. I had to go live with stepfather instead." She sighed, then looked up. "Can I tell you a secret, Sandor?" 

The bird didn't wait for an answer, she clasped Sandor's neck and brought his good ear to her lips. There, she whispered, "I ran away from the station, from stepfather." 

"Why?" Sandor whispered back. 

"Because you smell good," she replied. She curled her arms around his neck and brought her face down to nuzzle into it. Her delicate breath tickled him, like a butterfly's wings. She put a little sigh on his skin and said, "You smell like father." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> My updates on this are probably going to slow down as we approach the end of December. My big beloved project Another Nova, the sequel to Singing at the Stars, is coming in exactly two weeks on Christmas Day! 🌟🎄🌟🎄 
> 
> I'll be posting a revised version of Singing at the Stars on Christmas Eve; I've edited it to tidy up prose and add to Sansa's backstory. If you want updates in the meantime I'm on twitter @_prettybadmagic, where I force myself into public accountability 🤡 (the system works!) 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading! Winter has roosted in my brain and I am struggling, lol. It means so much to be able to share my stories with y'all 💞


	5. The Hearth I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor carves by the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy 🤠
> 
> This is the first part of two correlated Sansa chapters. I'm tryna keep these ones pretty short, so idk, it's just gotta be this way. I'd like to welcome our old friend angst; he'll be making an appearance in this chapter because I simply can't resist. Oh well. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Sansa**

Sandor said they ought to get going before dark. 

He had picked out a really nice branch: long, thick, and very strong looking. He lobbed off the greenery until it was trim enough to carry, then helped Sansa up onto his back. She couldn't walk—she didn't have her boots on, after all. So she locked her legs around his waist and set her chin atop his shoulder, and breathed him in while she rode. The sun fell down on the mountains and turned the pines a pretty purple color. It was finally evening, which meant it was time for Sansa to be held. 

First Sandor cooked up dinner, a bloody steak for himself, bread and butter for her. He even made her a special mug of warm milk with honey in it. That was the best part. They shared water from his canteen, because Sandor didn’t want her to get too thirsty, she had been a busy little bird. 

He was very right. Sansa drank a lot of water. 

She got a little sleepy after dinner, and a little sad. She went to wash up in the basin, and caught a glimpse of her hair in the water’s reflection—her curls were wild, an eagle’s nest on her head. Oh, it was dreadful. Her ribbons and plaits had fallen out during her long walk, and she hadn’t combed her hair since. When she complained to Sandor, he nudged her into a chair, and strode off to his room. 

He came back with a bristle brush—a plain wooden one, not nearly as pretty as the silver set of combs and brushes Sansa had back home. But it worked plenty fine. Sandor took all her curls, and gently worked through her tangles, from her ends to her roots. Sansa thought about asking for more ribbons, but remembered Sandor wouldn’t have any. And he liked her hair down. Even after it was smooth and shiny again, he kept running his fingers through it. He buried his hands at her roots and massaged her scalp until her heart started fluttering, and heat pooled between her legs. 

Sandor must have noticed her squishing her thighs together and twisting her hands in her lap, because he asked if she wanted to go to her nest. She said no, she wanted to be held. Sandor grumbled for a minute, rubbing his stubbled jaw. He tugged at the leg of his pants, then said, “Fine. Let me set up, little bird, and you’ll be mine for the night.” 

He brought in the rocking chair from the porch and set it before the fire. Sansa waited there, wrapped up in a yellow knit blanket, while Sandor got the branch ready out in the barn. He returned with a smooth cylinder of wood, dark bark peeled to reveal the pale brown flesh beneath. 

It was still rather large. Bigger than Sandor’s brawny upper arms. 

When they got resettled, with Sansa curled in Sandor’s lap, snug against his chest, he asked her, “How big?” 

Sansa blushed. It was embarrassing to talk of a man’s part with a full grown man, and more embarrassing because she had seen her first one earlier today. And the most embarrassing part of all was that she was laying on a man’s part now. Sandor’s branch throbbed on her backside, warm and firm. In fact, suddenly, that was all she could think about. Big things. Red things. Hot things. Things she didn’t care to think about until today. 

Things that made her bud hurt, desperately.

Sansa put out her hands and tried to give an estimate. Her tide muddied her mind. Of course, in usual circumstances, she would have wanted a delicate member, a small stick. Something ladylike. Tide-stricken, she measured out the length of the only branch she remembered, and for the width she did the same. Sandor gave her a wary look and growled, “Little bird, are you certain?” 

She nodded. Then she cupped her palms together, like a little bowl. “Those too.” 

Sandor barked a laugh. “You want the bollocks?” 

Blushing, she answered, “Yes, please. And the—the—the—” 

So, here’s the truth. 

Sansa _had_ seen one other man’s part, also by accident. She had been prying in her father’s study and opened up a maester’s book—human anatomy. It was a horrible mistake, of course. The whole thing was filled with illustrations of human insides, organs and guts and other nastiness she didn’t care for. The most frightening was the _member_ , because it wasn’t any member, it was an alpha’s member. 

Do you know what they have at the bottom? 

Well, Sansa did. A _knot_. Like rope, but on men. Sandor didn’t have one earlier. It only happens when you’re making pups together. Sansa wasn’t going to make pups with her prosthesis; she would be practicing. And for the sake of practicing… 

“You want the knot, is it?” 

Sandor grinned down her, a wide smile that showed all his straight strong teeth, but it was a soft thing. His eyes were gentle and bright. Sansa nodded—she was blushing too hard to get a word out. “Oh, little bird,” Sandor said with a shake of his head. “You’re something else, you know that?” 

“What?” she peeped. 

“A sweet little peach.” 

Sandor bent down and nipped at the tip of Sansa’s nose. She giggled and twisted away to bury her head in his chest. He laughed a bit to himself, but started in on his carving. It was rather cozy in Sandor’s lap. It was another nest atop a tall pine, perfect for a little bird. His scent cradled her, and his steady heartbeat lulled her to sleep. 

She must have slept for hours, because when she woke up, and turned to watch Sandor work, the column of wood had taken shape. A familiar shape, Maiden forgive. A shape that forced Sansa’s blush down between her legs. When she shifted against Sandor’s thigh, he asked, “What do you think?” 

“I like it,” Sansa replied. “You’re very good.” 

He kissed the top of her head and kept on working, shaving at the sides down to the bulging knot—it was big, of course. And his hands were very skilled. His fist dwarfed the knife that nipped at soft wood, curl after curl. Those strong fingers had been inside of her. They were near branches by themselves, thick and gnarled, knuckles darkened by crops of black hair. Sansa wanted to pet him there, relearn his warmth, but of course, he was busy. 

Sansa got a little bored, so she started singing some of her favorite songs to herself. She was a very talented singer, Father had always told her so. Sandor liked her voice too. He even liked the same songs she did. He had a lot of suggestions: _Florian and Jonquil, The Bear and the Maiden Fair, A Rose of Gold_. He asked for _Her Little Flower_ with a wink. 

Sansa turned red as a cherry, and shook her head. So Sandor sang it for her instead—deep and raspy, so embarrassing that Sansa hid behind her hands the entire time. Sandor bounced her on his leg, and jostled her head against his booming chest. He sang every single verse, even the part where the bees invade the rosy center and slurp the flower’s dew. Simply devastating, with a hard man’s part at your backside. 

And when he finished, it got very quiet in the cabin. There were no more dainty flowers and buzzing bees. The night outside was dark, banished by crackling flame in the hearth. Sandor’s whittling knife scraped on pine, and Lady snored in the corner. They breathed each other in. 

Another song bubbled up inside Sansa, a sad one: _Black Pines_. She sang it all herself, her voice a single thread of silk on a dark loom, and Sandor listened. At the end, he told her, “That was very pretty, little bird.” 

Sansa kissed Sandor’s worn button-down shirt, right above his heart. 

“It’s my favorite,” she replied. 

Then it was silent again. Sandor carved, and Sansa watched his neck. It was spotless. He didn't have a mate, an omega. Sansa felt sad for him. It had been lonely in the Vale with only Stepfather for company, but Sandor was alone in the mountains, with no one for company. No one but her, now. She was a delightful companion—another thing Father liked to tell her—so she put a hand on Sandor's neck, on his smelliest patch of skin, and asked very sweetly, "Can you tell me a story?" 

Sandor's grey eyes pulled from the prosthesis to peer down at her. It was hard to look at his face for too long—those scars were scary. The flickering light of the hearth pushed past his curtain of dark hair to catch deep red cracks and throw harsh shadows over ruined black skin. More shadows danced beneath his eyes and cheekbones. He seemed tired, up from a grave. Maybe that's what happened when you fought a war. If you didn't end up in the ground, you still looked like it. 

The hardest part of staring at Sandor was the smell. It came from his neck: a sharp, cutting smell, like prickly pine needles hot in the sun, stuck into the soft hollow of your foot. _Anger_ , Sansa thought. An alpha scent that gnawed on the corner of her heart and forced tears to her eyes. 

Sandor looked back to his work. "I'll tell you a story, little bird," he said softly. "A story about two brothers." 

Sansa pet his neck and watched him intently, so he knew to go on. He swallowed against her palm, then began, "There was a big brother and a little brother. The boys were both big, but the older brother was much bigger. He was a mean brother. He liked to hit the younger one. Pinch his ears, tug his hair, elbow his ribs. He'd push his little brother down into mud puddles, mash manure in his eyes, and put his piss wherever he saw fit. He'd prod his hands with a knife at the dinner table. He'd press pillows into his brother's face until his screams gave way to sleep. While the little brother slept, the older brother would stick needles in his bedding. He'd wait until his brother woke up screaming, and he'd batter him back to darkness." 

"That's horrible," Sansa breathed. She didn't like this story. 

"Oh, that's not the end of it, little bird," Sandor went on. "One day, their father brought home two toys for the brothers, wooden soldiers that danced on strings. The older brother didn't care for childish things. He left his soldier out on the table, and the younger brother was a silly boy. He picked it up to play." 

"No," Sansa gasped. 

"Yes. He took the toy. Had his hands on it for all of five minutes before the older brother came back from the barn. And do you know what he did, little bird?" 

Sansa shook her head. She didn't know the first thing about evil brothers. Sandor sighed. He set down his carving on the table beside them, and his hat alongside it. He was telling a scary story, Sansa realized, because next he pushed back his hair. He dragged it from the left side to the right, baring a half head of charred skin sparsely basted to his skull. He didn't let Sansa look away. He pinched her chin and cheeks to command her eye. 

"He picked me up by the collar. Towed me to the hearth—this very one.” Sandor directed her face to the raging fire before them. Scary. “He stuck my face in it, down to the ruby coals. He held me there, let flesh bubble and melt from bone as smoke clogged my shouts. Might've let me die, if my father hadn't come in. And after all that, who do you think took the beating?" 

"You," Sansa whispered, weak. 

"Me," Sandor replied. "But I learned my lesson. If they're big, be afraid. How's that for a story?" 

Sansa said nothing. It was a horrible story. Sandor's sharp scent stung her eyes and made them water. He was big. He was part monster. That was why he was alone out here. Now Sansa was frightened, but not for herself. She was afraid for Sandor. Her heart hurt. 

"I didn't like it," she moped at last. A tear slipped down her cheek, and Sandor smeared it away with a brutish palm. He leaned down close, put his hot breath on her lips. "I know," he told her. "I can smell it." 

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and puckered. He was going to kiss her lips, like Stepfather. It was best if it was over fast, but the kiss never came. Sandor released her chin and pulled away. He petted her curls instead, mashing a strong hand against the side of her head. "No need to be sour. You’ve been a good little bird. I won't put you in the flames." 

Sansa refused to open up. She was a good bird, but Sandor was a scary monster. “Little bird,” he growled. He cupped her jaw and gave her head a shake. She gave him nothing. “Look at me,” he bade. Sansa stitched her face tighter together. She didn’t like the stink of fear, the sharpness that clung to the air. It swelled like stormcloud and ached in her lungs. 

“Alright then, flame it is.” 

Sandor stood, and Sansa squealed. “No,” she whined, but Sandor trapped her in his arms and took one stride towards the hearth. She clawed his snug cotton shirt—at his chest, his shoulders, even up to his collar. She grabbed a handful of black hair to pull herself closer to him, further from the fire. “I’ve been good,” she wailed. “I’ve been _so good_.” 

The horrible monster laughed. It cracked like thunder in Sansa’s ears. He didn’t even have to fight her back. He stood strong and tall as a tree, and barked down at her while she scrambled like small game higher in his hold. It was her pulse that conquered her. Her blood blazed like the hearth, above and below. 

He was too big. He was the night; she was a drop of snow. 

So she gave Sandor what he wanted. She stopped her struggle, dropped her hands from his hair to his neck, and looked right at him. 

“Be nice,” she told him, frowning. 

Sandor quieted. Sansa’s image danced in his shining grey eyes. 

She wondered if the scars made him mean. She liked it better when they hid behind his hair. So she reached out, to smooth it back down, but Sandor’s head whipped to the side, shielding his burns from sight. 

“Let’s get you to your nest,” he grumbled to the wall. “I’ll bring you your cock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for Sansa's escapades with her new toy - I'll have it up hopefully by tomorrow!


	6. The Hearth II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa practices with her prosthesis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey me again! 
> 
> Here's the next bit of Sansa's POV. Gonna go ahead and lock myself and my breeding kink in horny jail for this. 
> 
> Have fun 🤠

**Sansa**

Sandor carried Sansa to her room. He pried back her nest’s curtains, set her down on her blankets, and put a flickering lantern on her trunk. To her horror, she remembered she hadn’t any time to tidy up. Her face flushed as Sandor took in the mess of it all, grinning to himself. His eyes landed on her quilt, webbed in dry white dew. 

"Oh, little bird,” he said, reaching out to grab the messy bundle. 

"Please don't," Sansa whispered. 

Sandor did. He smashed the quilt against his nose, and ripped an inhale. 

"Ripe little peach," he breathed out, eyes sharp on Sansa. She whimpered. He put a hand on her skirt's hem, and bunched the satin where his seed had turned to white crust. "We ought to do the washing." 

He winked at Sansa with his good eye, then stole the quilt. He left her alone with her aching pulse— _rude_. Sansa missed her nice alpha, the one who used his hands when she asked for help, who didn't steal drawers and quilts or tell scary stories. Maybe he had been lying to her. Maybe his smell was a trick. Maybe all she would get from him was the sharpness. 

Maybe he'd throw her in the hearth. 

Sansa shuddered. Her little bud was a hearth between her legs. She hadn't helped herself for hours; it was simply too much. She fell back on her pillows, and put a hand up her skirts. 

Oh, Seven forgive. 

She was somehow dripping wet and hot as ember at the same time. Her fingers glossed through puddles of dew atop rosy flesh. It was Sandor's fault, really. "Ooooh," Sansa moaned. She couldn't even _think_ of him. She swore she felt her bud throb beneath her fingertips. But Sansa was a naughty girl now, a naughty woman, and she pressed down, straight into the fire. 

It didn't take many more touches. Sansa made the mistake of picturing Sandor by the pine again, throwing up his powerful arms, parting branches like soft butter. The scent, oh, the scent that fell from his armpits. It was horrible. It was beautiful. It was— 

Sansa broke. Her dew dropped from her aching center, a waterfall. 

She didn't have a quilt anymore. Her waters spilled out onto her hand and soaked her chemise. 

Sandor really, _really_ , needed to do the washing. 

"Little bird?" 

Sansa took her hands from her skirts and straightened up—her cock must be ready! 

"You can come in," she replied, sweet as a peach. 

Sandor pushed open her curtains, then fell to his knees to reach Sansa's level. Sure enough, he presented the prosthesis. He held it out in two broad palms—a beast of a carving, ten inches of thick wood, with a swollen head and knot, and mighty bollocks at the base. He had even managed to replicate the veins. Sansa's greedy bud swelled up at the sight. 

"Oh, Sandor," she hummed. "It looks like the real thing." 

"Scary, is it?" he answered with a wink. 

Sansa blushed. Her eyes accidentally landed on the firmness in Sandor's pants, the _real thing_. "Well—not _so_ scary. I can be brave." 

"I bet you can, little peach. Here—" Sandor picked up Sansa's wrist and pressed the member into her still-sticky hand. "It's all yours." 

"Will you be close?" she asked. 

"I'll be up by the fire. You holler if you need anything, understand?" 

"I understand." 

"Good girl," Sandor said. He swiped his knuckles along Sansa's flushed cheek. "You'll have a fine time with it, I'm certain." 

With nothing but a quick twitch of a smile, he was off again. Sansa hefted the wooden cock in her palms. It was glossy with oil, sanded to perfect smoothness. She ran a finger along the ridged veins and bulging knot. She swirled around the head, which would be near purple, if it was anything like Sandor's. It was most definitely the right size. 

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

There was no way it would fit inside. The cock spanned the length of her forearm, so thick her fingers couldn't close around the width of it. Sansa was too small, her petals unfurled. This was a _branch_. She was silly to ask for such a thing, pretty and heartrending as it was. Even the sight of it put sweat on her temples and a flush on her chest. It was too hot in here with a member like this. She needed to lose these stuffy, stinky clothes. 

Sansa placed the prosthesis delicately on her trunk while she undid her bodice and skirts. She stuck them outside her nest, so Sandor would know to turn them with the laundry. She wanted to strip off her chemise too, since it was her nest, but if she got afraid, and needed Sandor's help—well, the Seven certainly wouldn't want him to see her naked. The Maiden especially. 

So she kept the chemise—it was made of wispy, breathable cotton anyway—and fell back on her pillows, her hem hitched to her hips. She took a few calming breaths of her forest's air. It was her scent and Sandor's combined, and only his nice scent, soft pine. She reached for her prosthesis, and settled the head between her legs. 

Oh, this would be trouble. 

The wood glided in the slick pond of her juices, perfectly firm on her pulse. Her body _wanted_ this. She knew it suddenly, true as prayer. This was why she hurt—she needed a man's part inside her, like a peach needs a pit. That's why an alpha needed an omega. Why Sansa should have been matched already. Her flower was _begging_ for the bees to invade. 

Luckily, it was only practice. In her nest, with her special member. 

So Sansa took it slow. She wound the head in circles over her petals and bud, and most teasingly, around her rosy center. Her center called the head in—that's what sweet dew was for. So Sansa ceded. She clutched the member two-handed around its girth and pushed the warm wooden tip into her tender wellspring. It spread her slick flesh, stretched her taut, and best of all, it lit her ablaze. 

It was better than Sandor's fingers. 

Bigger. 

Thicker.

Stronger. 

Sansa needed more. She eased another few inches inside herself, and whimpered as her nerves sparked like ember against the rippling veins. Every miniscule shift of her cock stoked her fire. She didn't need to go far—she could simply plunge in, and plunge out. So that's what she practiced: entry. It wasn't frightening at all. Her center welcomed the warmth of it, a branch in the hearth. Truly, Sansa gobbled it up. Her dew dripped and tugged the thing further up her belly, and further, until— 

That _spot_. Sandor's secret spot. 

Then Sansa went faster. That was the true spring, if springs could be made of molten earth. She needed the press of the rigid head against that aching swell of flesh. She ground it there, pulled dew like liquid flame from deep within, let it cascade down the branch, across her knuckles, to the bollocks. She pumped it furiously, mining for something, some blissful end to the heat that crackled inside her. 

She found it. Heart fluttering, legs quivering, arms trembling, she earned her release. Her center folded and swallowed the invading branch, a starved thing. When at last Sansa caught her breath, and managed to wipe the sweat from her forehead with the end of her chemise, she realized she had neglected her bud. 

How silly of her. 

Sansa lost herself practicing. Truly, there was much work to do. She tried a lot of new techniques. She held the cock in one hand, and teased her bud with the other. The prosthesis was a little heavy, so it made her arm hurt, and it sort of drooped inside her. But if she angled it right, it would hit her special spot. That was a delight. Then, she earned twice the flame. She rubbed her bud quick as she could, and even bucked against the branch. The torment was divine—her next release was endless, a cruise on the Sunset Sea, en route to the ruins of Old Valyria. 

The branch was drenched, her hands even more so. Secretly, _don't tell a soul_ , Sansa was curious. She brought her fingers to her lips and parted them. Her tongue snuck cautiously to her sticky skin, lapped. She pulled it back, swallowed. 

Sweet. Yummy. Sansa licked her fingers clean, then licked her spit clean, then wiped the rest on her sullied chemise. She understood why bees liked dew. She was her own bee, tapping her own center, sipping her own nectar. She was drunk from it, to tell it true. Mad with heat, but even more mad from her power. 

She loved her cock. 

Sansa started in again. She was feeling bolder and stronger after her little snack. She gripped the bollocks and thrust inside herself, past her favorite spot, deeper, deeper, and then—Sansa gasped. She found her end, and it hurt. That was her womb, where pups were made. She yanked up skirt to see her belly, then clasped a sticky hand to her mouth. 

She was stuffed full. Her wooden member jutted from her belly, like a Sevenmas banquet. She was certain that's what it was. She had replaced her insides with a branch, speared her very core. And when she peered down between her legs, at the offender, Sansa gasped again— 

She hadn't even reached the knot. 

It hovered threateningly at her entrance, cradled by her puffed up petals. Sansa whimpered. This was only practice, but she wanted to win. She was hungry, famished. She wanted it all. Timidly, she gripped the bollocks and sunk another sliver of an inch inside her. _Ouch_. That was too much fire, the tearing of flesh. Then she thought, _I want to be brave._ She wanted to prove Sandor wrong; she didn't want to be afraid. 

Sansa pushed a fiery breath from her nose, her brow scrunched in consternation. She had an idea. She thought of the quilt and the trunk and Sandor's thigh, how falling onto her bud made it easier to find her release. 

She needed to fall onto her branch. 

So she extracted her cock. She scooted up to kneeling, her legs spread wide, then arranged the member between them. She dipped low, to find the head. Her center was open, ready, soaked. Inch by inch, she worked her way down. First the head, then the shaft, and lastly, the knot. She stopped there, at its bulging top. Her soft walls were stretched to the seams; they wouldn't give, sopping as they were. 

Sansa huffed and grunted as she bounced against it, trying to force the fiendish thing up her belly. Her end was sore from all the prodding, her bud wilted. She almost wanted to cry—tears pooled in her eyes. It wouldn't work. She needed something more, something to make her strong. Then Sansa knew—there was only one thing that could melt her to mush. 

_Sandor._

This cock wasn't hers, not truly. It was _him_. Every agonizing inch was in his image. Sansa loved to hate it, like all gross and scary things. He was massive, monstrous. A horrible beast, red and swollen, thick and veined. And he smelled, oh, he smelled. The air had been sap up in the loft, straight from the tree trunk itself. Probably from all his heavy breathing, grunts, growls, and the like. He was a savage, a feral hound. He had no control, when he—he— 

Oh, no. 

Seven have mercy. 

Sansa slipped down on her knot. It rammed up through her entrance, split her center, and stayed, wide and unyielding, on her most tender ring of nerves. Her eyes sparkled with white-hot stars. Tears tumbled down. Juices flowed. 

_Pups._

That's what was in there, in the bollocks. That's what Sandor spilled into her skirts. And that, that was what Sansa was practicing. 

She was putting pups in her womb. 

_Sandor's pups._

Sansa whimpered and toppled forward, catching herself on the edge of the trunk. She shimmied her hips, like a naughty bird. She dragged the last of the knot into her belly, so deep her ribs hurt. Her bud flared. She was more than a hearth; she was a forge. "S-Sandor," she whispered. Sweat seeped into her brows, and dripped past her eyelashes to mingle with her tears. She couldn't spare a hand to wipe the water away. Her thighs tremored. "Sandor," she tried again. 

Then she realized—she was begging. 

So she begged more. "Please," came a fraught whisper. "Fill me." 

Her belly loved that. It was her heat, her mind clouded with savory sap. Oh, Seven above, she needed him, all of him. Not the wooden cock—the real thing. She wanted red hot flesh inside her, riving her entrance, shredding her walls, and most importantly— 

Plundering her womb. 

She wanted what he gave her in the loft: a load of pups, fresh and plenty. 

Sansa couldn’t stop herself, his name spilled from her lips in a low moan as she truly ruptured, a blossom turned to fruit in an instant. Her petals smashed against the base of her wooden cock, and she ground herself there, riding her knot, taking her feast of imagined flesh, and her pups along with it. 

She wilted onto the trunk, chest heaving, her blood buzzing light as air. She was complete. 

But a minute later, her insides hurt. Sandor's size was impossible, after all. 

Timidly, Sansa reached behind her. She tugged at the bollocks, but the branch didn't budge. So she tugged harder. Nothing. She dropped onto her back then, and tried two hands, using all her might to pry the cock free. 

Nothing happened. 

It was stuck. 

Sansa tipped her head back. She opened her mouth wide, and wailed, " _Saaaaandor!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh! Sandor's POV, coming up next!


	7. Sky-big

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor visits the nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! 
> 
> Pretty "I can't resist writing angst for the life of me, you can pry Sad Boy Sandy from my cold, dead hands" Magic here. I was in my feels this week; this is the result. It would be disingenuous not to credit the song that inspired the vibe, [Dan Deacon's Become a Mountain.](https://youtu.be/GtBmZYqZZjU) Talk about ecstatic release, lol. One of my top five Sandor songs for sure. 
> 
> Enjoy 🤠

**Sandor**

Sandor kept himself busy while the bird used her new cock. Real busy. He sat back in Grandad’s rocker, unbuttoned his pants, and went to town. He needed it. The girl had been in his lap for what—nine hours? Nine hours, stiff as a board, with nothing but peach perfume wafting up from her shiny red hair. He liked her hair well enough, but he needed more than that. He was a red-blooded alpha, after all. 

So he spit in his palm, and stroked. He had plenty of material to work with. First he pictured the bird back in the loft, wide-eyed and flighty, her little tits free as the North. If he could get his hands on them—

That was all it took, the first time. The next time he pictured them bare. Pink nipples out for all the world; pink nipples hard between his teeth. Gods, what a thought. Then he pictured the girl riding his thigh again, topless, skirtless, naked as the day she came. What a tight little body she’d have. A young one, taut-skinned, with a smooth belly, pretty little hips. He’d be able to see her ribs. He had felt them through her bodice. 

If he was inside her, he’d be able to _see_.

Little belly like that, he’d see everything. He’d tickle those pretty guts of hers.

After he wiped the second mess up with his kerchief, he slowed down a bit. Just kinda thought of her smell and her sweet smile, the way she was in his lap by the fire. The way she asked him to carve up _his_ cock, and _his_ knot. He hadn’t knotted in ages. If you paid pretty coin, you’d get a girl in heat at the Unicorn. But you needed coin _and_ the girl’s approval; they needed to trust that you weren’t gonna bite them none or force a catch. Took the willpower of a septon to pull out of an omega in heat. Knotting on the side was a real bitch. Worth it, sometimes.

It was worth it two years ago, when Molly was in heat. She said Sandor could go on up to her. It took all of ten strokes before his knot swelled up and threatened her pretty cunt. There was a moment, admittedly a long moment, where Sandor thought he wasn’t gonna do it, pull out. He was gonna make pups, be a father. His blood begged him. The knot egged him on. 

But Molly turned back and gave him a look. That look. 

_Scared._

She read his mind. Didn’t want Sandor’s mongrels swimming inside her. 

So he wasted them in the sheets between the girl’s thighs. She ran off, and Sandor waited out his knot, alone. Might not have been worth it in the end. He went down to the saloon after, drank his way through a fifth of whiskey. Puked on the bartop, got dragged out to the street. Blacked out in the alley and woke up in a puddle of piss, Molly’s sweet smell strong in his nose. 

That’s what heat did to an alpha, Seven be damned. It was a miracle Sandor had lasted this long without scavenging in Sansa’s skirts. He could have touched her a bit while she slept in his lap. He could be touching her right now, fucking her even. He was stronger. She was a weak thing. 

Sandor pictured her scared little face. The one she gave him less than an hour ago. He wasn’t really gonna toss her in the hearth. He was hoping she’d smile, or at least stop smelling like spoiled fruit. But no, all she did was squirm. She groped at any part of Sandor she could get, like a startled squirrel. It tormented Sandor’s cock. He craved a challenge like that. A little hunt to get the blood pumping. Then the fear started smelling good, ripe, ready. Drinkable. 

His blood itched. He felt it most in his lower half: _Get up. Take her._

_She’s small._

_She’s yours._

But then he heard something that turned his muscles to stone—his name, soft on the other side of the wall. He froze with his cock pounding in his fist. Then he heard it again, louder. His cock lunged. Then he really heard it, not a whisper, a full on moan in the prettiest high-pitched voice. 

“ _Saaaaandor!_ ” 

His cock exploded, a goddamn geyser of seed. Shot out onto his shirt and streamed down his knuckles. Gods, that was good. That was something else. But the bird wouldn’t stop peeping. Next she cried out, “Please,” and then, “Help,” and then he heard it—sobbing. 

Something had gone wrong. 

Sandor was up in an instant, buttoning himself, crudely wiping seed with his already ruined kerchief. He barreled into Sansa’s room, fuming, but stopped short in front of her canvas curtains. She was blubbering on the other side, a sad peach. 

“Little bird?” he asked. 

“It’s stuck,” she cried. 

Sandor’s well-beaten, sore-as-shit, half-hard cock stirred. He hid a groan in clenched teeth. “It’s stuck,” he repeated, throat tight. “Where?” 

“ _Inside_ ,” the girl whined. “I was—and then I—and the _knot_. It won’t come out.” 

Sandor fingered the nest’s flimsy walls. He wanted to see, bad. He knew the girl could take him. That’s why he carved up the prosthesis as big as him. Identical as he could get it. She was a tough little bird. But a naked bird, judging by the crumpled ball of satin at his feet. Wouldn’t be polite to barge in on a little lady like her, no matter how desperately his cock wanted it. He swallowed down the heady scent of peach, and told her, “You’re catching, little bird. Give it a minute and you’ll be just fine. It’ll come right out.” 

She sniffed some, probably pouting, but otherwise stayed quiet. Sandor idled. He wasn’t sure if he was dismissed or not. Not until the girl whispered, “Will you wait in here with me?” 

Sandor sighed. He eased off his boots, set his hat on top of them, and parted the curtains. 

He would never have been ready. 

The stench was strong, thick. Like popping open a jar of peach preserves, and stuffing a finger inside. Only it was a huge jar, big enough to fit your entire face. Sandor’s face was in the jam. His lungs were clogged. The lantern light turned everything soft and orange. And the girl—she cowered in the corner, shivering. She wore only her little cotton underdress, white and see-through, imprinted with her gentle curves. Sandor had never seen her eyes so wide and wet. She was hurting. 

“Oh, little bird,” he growled. 

He dropped to his knees and shuffled inside. There wasn’t much room for him. It was bird-sized, not alpha-sized. He took up a good two-thirds of the mattress, and he didn’t know if the girl wanted to be touched, either. So he shifted himself to sit at her side, settling against the wall with his knees hitched up high. He stuck out his hand, a little bird treat, an offering for his first true visit to her nest. She liked it. She warmed right up to him. She held his fingers in two hands and brought them to her nose. She sniffed, then smiled. She knew that smell from the loft all right. Naughty bird. 

Next she took his wrist and pressed his palm to her neck, then her face, then she kissed him, a series of little bird pecks. Real sweet. “Good,” she breathed out, smiling. Then she crawled over on all fours, a little shakily what with the cock inside her. She made it between Sandor’s legs and dropped her back to rest against his chest. Then she stretched out her pale legs, and didn’t bother to adjust the skirts that bunched up her thighs. Showed Sandor everything below the knee, and little above, too. That was his treat. 

The girl didn’t settle down though. She kept shifting against him, nestling her sharp spine against his gut, and lower. It got him fired up. The bird knew. As soon as he was hard, his cock climbing down the leg of his pants, she rested on the other leg, and watched. It must have been a fun show for her. Her eyes made Sandor that much stiffer. His cock ballooned, truthfully. The flickering light lapsed wildly over the outline of his bulge, made it into some creature of the night. 

And that cheeky bird—she _touched_. Sandor’s breath snagged the second her gentle fingertips landed on him, right at the head. She retreated, barely. 

“Do you want me?” she asked, glancing up to him. 

“Little bird,” he growled in return. Wasn’t it obvious? 

She didn’t like that. She put her hand back on him and dragged down his length, hard. “Of course I do,” Sandor got out. He tipped his head down toward the creature. “ _He_ does.”

“Your cock?” 

“My cock.” 

“He’s really big.” 

“I know.” 

“He fit inside me.” 

That got a real nasty noise out of Sandor, something he wouldn't necessarily want the girl to hear—his hunger. But she kept on petting him through his pants. Sandor's cock jerked up and down, strained against the tightly-woven canvas and into her soft fingertips. He clenched his teeth to keep down subsequent noises, though his gut rumbled. Here was the girl, stuffed full of _his_ cock, wearing next to nothing, and stroking him without a care. Sandor could see down the front of her little dress, oh yes. Just the top of her tits, no nipple, but it was enough. A nice midnight snack. 

She started pressing harder, using her palm to cup the contour of Sandor's swell. She had him, and she knew. She turned her face right to him and asked, "Why don't you have an omega?" 

Sandor's heart wrung like a rag. "Never found one," he answered, curt. 

"Don't you want pups?" 

"I do." 

“Would you beat them?”

“No.” 

"Would you let them put each other in the hearth?" 

"No, little bird," Sandor said. "I wouldn't." 

He didn't want to be so hot-blooded under the scrutiny of those blue moons she had for eyes. She was doing it again, peeling back his blackened skin with no more than a doe-look. She charmed his pulse, soothed it almost, with her tender touch. Maybe he was angrier than he realized. Or lonelier. He was fine until she came along, self-servicing. Now he needed this: her attention. It crippled and cured him at once. He was a boy in her stare, unblemished. But he was a monster, too. Full dark. The bad side of the moon, and her, radiant white. 

"You'd be a good father, then," she told him. "Our pups wouldn't have scars." 

Like that, he was done for. 

The girl didn't recoil this time. As warm seed spurted and spread across his thigh, her fingers stayed, to prod and mash that stickiness against canvas and skin. "That's them," she said, and she grinned up to Sandor, two rose apple cheeks resting on upturned lips. A little sleuth, this one. She caught on quick. 

Sandor smiled back down on her; he couldn't help it. "That's them," he replied. 

With a flourishing sigh, Sansa fell back onto his chest. She set her hands atop his knees and said, "I think I'm ready." 

"For what?" 

"For you to take it out." 

Oh—of course. His cock was still inside her. 

Sandor pressed apart her legs so they rested against his. Her hem fell to her belly, shielding a mere two inches of upper thigh. Sandor stooped down a little, stuck his chin on her hair. Not because he had to, but because it was a good reason to get close. From this angle, he could see the bollocks at the base, jutting from between her legs. Sandor took them in one hand, and set his other on her belly. 

"Ready?" he asked. 

"Ready," she replied. 

The girl gripped his wrist as he gave a soft test tug. She was a tight little blossom, but dewy. One stronger tug and the thing slid out, glistening as though it were coated in glass. The girl whimpered a bit and twisted her head back and forth. Then Sandor saw: blood. She had opened herself up alright, poor thing. It streaked alongside her juices, not a lot, not battlefield gore, but enough to spook a maiden. 

"Here," Sandor said. He had a solution. He lifted the messy thing to his mouth, and began to lick. She couldn't be scared of the blood if it was gone. So he got to drink fresh peach juice and a little bit of her insides along with it. It was sweet and perfect with a metallic tang. Sandor slurped over the head, the shaft, the knot, even down to the bollocks. She had spilled her sap in every crevice. He wanted it all. 

When Sandor finished, he set it back in her lap. "How's that?" he asked. 

The girl didn't answer straight away. She curled her arms around the wooden cock, then made herself into a tiny ball, nestled against Sandor's chest. "Thank you," she whispered. Sandor put a few kisses on her hair, small like the ones she gave his palm. Then he needed a little more of his bird. He crossed his arms around her, and cradled her soft head in his hands. She mumbled something into his shirt. 

"What's that?" he asked. 

He picked up her little head, sliding his palms against her neck and lining his thumbs along her jaw. Her eyes shone. In a small voice, she asked, "Do you like being scary?" 

Sandor's throat closed up—the jam. He couldn't swallow. Water collected in his eyes. He choked. He couldn't get a word out. He shook his head. The girl was watching his hair. She was seeing his scars. Seeing him, down to the bone. Her little hand reached out, and Sandor was trapped, preserved in a peach-packed jar. She brushed the hair from his bad side. She set her fingertips to his ruined cheek. No, no, no. 

It shouldn't be. 

There shouldn't be anything left for him, after all these years. But look, here she was, a little bird, a little peach, a little snowdrop moonbeam, with ice skin and fire hair. An impossible little thing. Her palm rested pure white on bitter black. It cooled. It soothed. A remedy like none other. 

Suddenly Sandor could breathe. There was fresh space in his lungs where there had only been smoke. His heart pounded, strong and red, against his ribs. 

"I don't want to be scared," the girl told him. "Even though you're big." 

She grew braver. She traced and touched what bones she could. She added a second hand. She pressed two palms into his scars at once, a spring snow on charred earth. She was doing him a favor. She was quenching his hurt. Sandor shut his eyes; they had been shut for a while. 

"Thank you," he whispered, though he didn't why. 

Sandor held his bird until she fell asleep. Then he scooped her up beneath her arms, and arranged her so she laid the right way on her mattress. He made sure to tidy up her hair. He draped it over one shoulder so it reached her narrow waist. She wouldn't let go of the cock, so that stayed, tucked in her arms, resting between her breasts. They rose and fell, rose and fell. A pretty sight. Sandor lingered to watch her. He wanted to stay. She wasn't up to tease him about it. 

But something drew him out of her nest. Sandor stuck on his boots, and his hat. He went back down the hall and fetched a bottle, just a routine-type thing, and he took it outside to the porch. 

It was the stars. That's what stole him from his bird. 

Sandor slumped onto the top step and uncorked the whiskey with his teeth. He didn't care to use a glass; it made more work. His gut was the glass. He sipped some and watched the sky. It was better here than down south. Fewer trees in the way. A half-world of stars. To be honest, Sandor was a little afraid of the night. It was big. He didn't like to think about it, but of course, he was. 

Night hollowed Sandor out the same way fire did. It was a black-gut feeling. The pitter-patter thump of red flesh reduced to stiff char. Sandor felt dead in the dark, because it was him and his thoughts, and his thoughts had been the same for near-on decades. _You're small. A speck, a pitiful star in the sky, and worse, ash in the hearth._ The night sky was big. Fire felt bigger. It ate him up. Whiskey gave Sandor new thoughts, sometimes. Sometimes the stars looked like his mother's eyes, the way they sparkled when she sang to him. Sometimes they were Maggie's smile, gapped and wide, but bright. 

Sometimes, the best of times, the stars were like a quilt, and the quilt was like an embrace. How heavy was the sky? How would it feel, draped over his body? Would he sink into the earth? Or would he fly? He liked these thoughts. Being small wasn't so bad, after all. 

It was stupid because he knew he was a brute of an alpha—tall, muscled, dangerous. But he lived in Gregor's shadow. The cruelty seeped in. Sandor fought. He killed. He couldn't count the number of lives he snuffed, single-handedly. War made killers of us all, but Sandor liked the killing. He liked feeling big. He liked being Gregor to northern soldiers, raining bullets like fire into weaker hearts, watching them burn, and fade. 

Liquor wasn't working tonight. It was fire on dead flesh. Sandor left the bottle on the porch and stumbled his way inside, down the hall, to his bedroom. Didn't take off his clothes, didn't pull back the covers, he just toppled into bed, a fallen star. 

The rest of the sky danced behind his eyes to torment him. Flame followed. 

Sandor wanted his sweet little bird. His heart had this urge to get up, to invade her nest. He wanted to feel big. He wanted to hold her like the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ❤️
> 
> I just wanna say 🌟 Another Nova is coming Christmas Day 🌟and Singing at the Stars will be updated the night before! Yuletide bless up 🎄❄️ 
> 
> 'Til then!


	8. The Wash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor cleans up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy 🤠 
> 
> It was time for this one to fly. Nothin' but smut. Enjoy!

**Sansa**

Sansa woke at dawn, cold with sweat, to wild grunts coming from across the hall. 

From her alpha's room. 

They weren't like his grunts in the loft. They were high and breathy, almost a whimper. Sansa shivered beneath her knit blankets. She didn't like the sound of them. She drew up to her knees and listened for an end, but they kept coming. She thought of shouting to Sandor that he ought to be quiet, especially if he was handling his branch. But that didn’t feel right. And she was rather chilly. 

Sansa decided to do something daring. She crawled from her nest into the open air, then tiptoed down the hall. She waited outside Sandor’s room, listening. She even dropped to hands and knees and sniffed at the crack below the foot of the door. Sharp. Sour. Not the full-bodied sap that made her bud hot. It was the other kind, the kind that tickled her heart like a thousand pinpricks. Sansa shuddered. She wanted it to stop. 

Quiet as a little mouse, she pushed open his door. Pink light fell from the window and landed on Sandor’s giant four-poster bed, filled with him, twisting restlessly in his quilted covers. He hadn’t even taken off his boots, that silly alpha. He didn’t notice Sansa. He wasn’t awake. He was dreaming. 

Bad dreams. Nightmares. 

Sansa padded to his bed, where he lay trembling on his side. She touched his shoulder and gave it a timid shake. “Shhh,” she told him. “Be quiet.” But he couldn’t hear her in dreamland. Sansa shook him harder. She got annoyed, and dizzy. The scent was too much for her. Even in pale dawn, the scent was dark, a deep and dense forest, no sun to be found. It was black sap in her nose. “Sandor, please, stop,” she asked sweetly. He didn’t. So Sansa picked up his cheek, the better one, and shook that. “Stop it,” she said, more firmly this time. 

Nothing. His eyes stayed shut, his face contorted. Sansa frowned. Those black pines closed in on all sides. Sharp branches and needles prodded her arms, her spine, her ribs. Suddenly all she longed for was _her_ pine, strong and familiar. Breathless, she scrambled into Sandor’s bed. She pushed her way into his arms, with her backside nestled against his front. She tucked her head beneath his chin and tugged his arm back down to shield her from the dark. 

Here, she breathed. Better. Much better. 

Only as soon as she was settled, and calmed, Sansa realized she had made a mistake. Sandor quieted. His muscular body went tense around her. She felt an upward breeze at the crown of her head as he drank in her air. At her buttocks, a creature stirred. 

She was trapped. 

Or had she surrendered? 

Either way, she couldn’t move. Sandor pressed down on her with his elbow in her belly, and his arm flush between her breasts. His hand cradled her neck; his fingers wrapped around it in full. When she swallowed her fright, she felt every single one sunk into her throat. His other arm snuck between their bodies, _unbuttoning_. Sansa knew as soon as his warmth landed in the cleft of her buttocks, mashed against her chemise. She would have wriggled away, but that arm came back to clamp down across her hips. Now, she was trapped. 

Sansa whimpered. She felt frightened and safe at once, so she quickly became terrified. Her little bud screamed its own song, a stupid thing, pleading for its demise. Sansa gripped the forearm on her hips with both hands and tried to pry it off. Sandor’s sleeves were rolled up and exposed a carpet of dark hair, soft beneath her fingertips. She liked the feeling. She wasn’t strong enough to escape.

When Sandor began to move against her, she held him tight, her nails deep in hairy skin and corded muscle. He swallowed great lungfuls of her; his chest swelled and released at her spine. Her air turned to growls in his belly, and he spat them out, rough and low, into her hair. “Little peach,” came one of them, deep as ore in the belly of the earth. “My sweet little peach.” 

He was going to gobble her up. The branch at her buttocks was so big he filled it out, and the rest glided up her back as he shifted his hips up and down. His mouth dropped onto her head, and he started to nuzzle and kiss, to eat. Sansa’s noises made him hungrier. If she whimpered, his strokes became deeper, his pulse hotter through a scant layer of cotton. Once she thought she might plead with him to spare her. But as soon as a timid, “Sandor,” crested her lips, his growls became roars. 

He unleashed them all into her hair. He opened wide; sharp teeth sunk into her scalp. Sansa stitched her lips together—she wouldn’t feed him more sounds. Instead, with each powerful thrust, she squeezed her thighs. If she did that, she almost, almost, gave her bud relief. It was white-hot, near numb from Sandor’s strong hold. His arm was so close, pressed into her maidenhair. She knew he shouldn’t use his hands on her, and he wasn’t, but oh, Sansa wanted them. She pulled on his arm again, feebly, to no end. 

So she begged, “Touch me,” and with one more tug, he submitted. He was a nice alpha today. His arm slid back, and he stuck his hand between her legs. His fingers dug into her bud through her chemise. Sansa moaned. Sandor’s other hand moved up from her neck to cup her jaw. His forefinger plunged into her mouth. 

A little bird treat, just for her. 

Sansa sucked, and she rode his palm, and she received his aching member, throb after throb. Their pulses climbed. Their heat rose up like a cloud, a summer storm. Whimpers and groans spun to a feral song. They sang together. 

It ended with one final roar, so loud it might have ripped Sandor’s lungs in two. Warmth spurted across Sansa’s back. She bucked her hips as she collapsed into her own release. She pressed into Sandor’s hand, made him feel what he had done to her little heart. She stacked her palms atop his and held him there. 

They stayed still to collect their breath. Sansa kept Sandor's finger between her lips, something to sip and lap and nibble. It filled her entire mouth. It tasted like _him_ , dirt, and salt. Delicious. It made Sansa realize— 

"I'm hungry." She picked up Sandor's wrist, and tugged him from her mouth. "It's time for your chores." She tilted her chin and peered upward, only to see Sandor's dark brow slanted over his steel-sharp eyes. He pushed a hot breath out onto her forehead, and said, "Fine." 

He buttoned up before Sansa got a peek at him. Then he carried her down the hall to her rocking chair. She asked for a blanket and a warm mug of honeyed milk straight away. What she really wanted was a breakfast like she had in the Vale—crusty pastries filled with custard and jam, or fine sweetbreads studded with dried fruits and nuts. And all paired with that earthy red tea from across the Narrow Sea. Sansa loved to pretty it with cream and sugar until it turned to a dusty pink. It looked especially dashing in her fine porcelain tea set, painted with swirls of northern blue roses. 

Sandor made porridge. He put jam atop her bowl, and a half dozen eggs on his. He wasn't one for chewing; he swallowed his meal two eggs at a time. Then he eyed Sansa's portion. She ate a few quick bites, then surrendered it. 

After that, Sansa took her cup of milk to her nest. Sandor gathered the clothes and the blankets that needed washing. Sadly, he couldn't have her chemise, despite its sorry condition. It hadn't been washed since before her journey. It smelled in ways Sansa scarcely recognized. It wasn't the scent of an unplucked flower—it was fruit wine, potent in its age. She lifted her arm and sniffed beneath her puffed sleeve. 

_Gross._

But she liked it. 

Her morning was for practice. Her rosy center ached from last night's play, so she worked with her fingers mostly. She tended to her bud first. She dropped back on her pillows, and bunched her skirts up to her belly. As ever, her petals were slick and hot to the touch. Sansa became curious. She had never seen them, since they were tucked inside her. No one had. Not even Stepfather, though he sometimes came to watch her dress after bathtime. That was another thing Sansa missed—her clawfoot copper tub. How was Sandor supposed to give her a Strangersday bath without one? 

No matter. The bath would have to wait. There were more urgent issues. Sansa spread her legs wide, knees bent and splayed to the side. An unladylike posture for an unladylike activity. Cautiously, she folded in on herself, two hands on her maidenhair to pry her petals apart. 

There it was—her bud! 

A smile broke across her face. Her little pink bud poked from equally pink petals. That was all she could see without hurting her neck, but it was enough. What a funny piece of flesh—small and firm, warm and achy. When Sansa prodded it, it pulsed. There was so much blood down there she swore she saw a throb. She teased it more, scooping dew from her center and rubbing it all over. She toyed with her petals too. They were small, quite pretty. Flowers were supposed to be pretty. They looked especially nice, glistening and swollen. 

Her flower loved the attention, and it didn't take long for Sansa to finish. She squeezed her bud gently between two fingers, and rolled it in circles, riding her pulse like a wave. She crested and toppled, dew dripping, bud dancing, back to solid ground. Such fun. 

A lady's tide wasn't a terrible condition, all told. You simply needed a nest, and a very nice alpha. 

Sansa used her hands two more times. She went very slowly, thinking mostly of the first night Sandor had found her in the loft and used his hands. She wished he hadn't promised Mrs. Lydden he wouldn't lay them on her. Sansa didn't even care that they weren't bound to be married mates—could the Maiden really be disappointed in her out here, in the middle of nowhere? Besides, the Maiden would _love_ the way Sandor smelled. He was a warrior, after all. That's how the most romantic fairy tales went. An omega princess, swept off her feet by a handsome alpha knight. They could smell that they were in love; they didn't need to be betrothed. It was magic. 

Sandor was like magic, or at least his scent was. When Sansa pictured him, pine strong, claiming her without a care for vows and riding into the mountains at sunset—her bud burst. She lay still in her cushions for a very long time. She put her hand to her neck, where her imaginary knight had bitten her, and shivered. How scandalous! Ladies were not to be bitten before vows, and ladies were supposed to give the first bite. Those were the rules. There would be no biting here—Sansa was a lady, unbetrothed, and a very good girl besides.

Sandor had told her so. 

This good girl went for a sip of milk, and decided it was time to use her trunk. She had just settled her bud on its corner when sap, hard as amber, struck her nose. 

She gave the air three, long sniffs. She knew that smell—Sandor was _working._

Sansa's blood buzzed like a swarm of bees beneath her skin. Hungry bees, mission-driven to make honey. She crept from her nest, and peeked out the window. Sure enough, Sandor was out in front of the cabin, laboring over a large wooden tub and a washboard. So silly really, for a man, an alpha, to do such work. He did all the cooking and cleaning, because he had never found an omega. And he certainly didn't have a maid or a cook, as Sansa had back home. 

But what a sight he made. His white cotton shirt stuck to his enormous muscles as though the fabric were painted on. Sweat had pooled at his backside and beneath his arms. Dark hair swayed at his shoulders as he heaved the quilt up and down the ridged washboard. It put Sansa in a trance, the up and down, up and down. Laundry was a waste of that great strength. He could haul a plow by himself, perhaps even a train car, or a whole mountain! 

Sansa stuffed a hand between her legs as her bud pounded. She braced herself on the windowsill with the other hand, doing all she could not to puddle onto the floorboards. Her insides ached worse than her bud. Sansa thought of her cock—that's what would sate her heat—but she had a special thirst, a thirst for sap. 

Sansa was very good at being quiet. Stepfather liked quiet. So she snuck down the hall and out to the front door. She opened it a crack and watched Sandor. He had his back to the cabin, so he didn't pause his scrubbing one bit. He was humming to himself too, Sansa realized. The jaunty notes of _Her Little Flower_ filled the fresh alpine air. But Sansa wasn't the flower. 

She was the bee. 

On tiptoes, she stepped out to the porch and down the stairs. She carefully navigated over clumps of dry grass and patches of red-brown gravel, biting her lip as their sharpness nipped at the balls of her bare feet. But she made it closer, and Sandor's hums turned to raspy singing, and he bobbed his hatted head, and then Sansa knew what she wanted. 

She reached out. She snapped up his black rancher's hat by the crown and ran, clutching it to her chest. "Little bird," Sandor called crossly from behind. But Sansa made it to the safety of the porch. She climbed the five steps up, then turned. 

"Little bird," Sandor called again. He had dropped the washing and unfolded to his indomitable height. He stalked to the foot of the stairs. "Give it here," he said, stretching out a brutish palm. 

Sansa shook her head. She took the hat by its brim, and dropped it on. It fell loosely past her brows, but from up so high, she could see Sandor's eyes narrow and his mouth fall to a scowl. Unluckily for him, Sansa was no longer afraid. She put her hands on her hips and said, "I'm the alpha now." 

Sandor's downturned lips twitched at the burnt corner. "Little bird," he growled, rough as rock.

But Sansa pounced. She leapt from the top step into Sandor's arms—he caught her of course—and coiled herself around him. Sap-starved, she went for his neck first, his thick, smelly neck. She put kisses and licks on his sticky skin, the way he had done to her in the loft. Then she pried back his buttons to free his chest. It was hairy as his arms, rounder than Sansa's. She pulled in mouthfuls of dense muscle and sucked, extracting her midday snack. But she was still small in Sandor's hold. It was like his bed, like she was nested in tall pine. 

Sansa tugged Sandor's hair to bring his ear to her lips. "Fall down," she told him.

He did. He dropped onto his backside, steadying Sansa at the waist as he landed flush against the dusty ground. Then it really was like it had been in the loft. Sandor was the earthbound bird. And Sansa—she was on top. 

She liked the way Sandor looked beneath her. His black hair fell to the sides of his face. It was harsh and hollowed in the spring sun, but his bones weren't so bad. They cut like dark diamond, a rarity scared up from the bowels of the earth. Sansa liked precious things. She liked things that glittered. She petted his hairy chest and his neck. Then she dropped down and kissed him the same. She lapped the salt and sap from his skin, and swallowed, and sipped some more. In her hotblooded haze, her hands snuck up to cradle Sandor's cheeks. 

He caught her shoulders and tugged her forward. Suddenly her mouth hovered over his. Her hair tumbled down and curtained their faces in bright red. A little nest, in here. He wanted a kiss again. That would be alright, Sansa decided. She pursed her lips and waited, eyes drawn tightly shut. Sandor's branch thudded against her bud. He breathed shallow, stinky breath onto her lips. 

The kiss never came. Sandor hooked his hands behind Sansa's knees, and with a concerted growl, he dragged her over his chest to his face, so quickly she had to catch her hat in two hands to keep it on her head. "Sandor," she whined. He was rummaging in her skirts. Sansa spared a hand to claw at his hair, but Sandor batted her away. "What are you doing?" 

"Lunch," he rasped, as he buried himself beneath her hem. His half-crisped lips and surrounding scruff tickled as he kissed up her thighs. He trapped them and spread them, exposing her dew to his dark air. His hooked nose nuzzled into their softness and up to her maidenhair. 

"You can't," Sansa whined. "You can't look." 

"I won't," Sandor grumbled. "I'll keep my eyes shut." 

Sansa peeled up her skirts to see Sandor's face, entrenched between her legs. But he told it true—he wasn't peeping. "Fine," Sansa said. He wasn't using his hands, either. He was doing what he did to the prosthesis last night: cleaning. Sansa liked being clean very much. This way, her dew wouldn't land in her chemise. 

Sansa dropped her hem to hide Sandor once more. She patted his head through the sheer cotton. "Eat me, please," she told him. 

See, Sansa's bud also liked being clean, and here's why: Sandor kissed it clean. He started with light pecks, then he added tongue. He had a strong tongue. It curled and traced her little pulse, firm and precise. The best part was when his lips wrapped around it. He sucked on her bud, believe it or not. Spit swirled alongside his powerful tongue, battering it, gobbling it up. It throbbed so hard Sansa wilted. She caught herself with one palm in scraggly grass. She used the other to hold her hat. It reeked of pine up there. 

"Sandor," she mewled. 

Her noises stoked his appetite. He abandoned her bud, and came for all her other dew-drenched parts. He licked her puffy petals, even nibbled a bit. He lapped all around her center. It was simply devastating. There was such brightness at her entrance, a white-hot halo of nerves, that sang to the Gods on high with every powerful circling. It was so much that Sansa pressed her thighs together, as if that would cast Sandor out. But no, his hands sunk into her buttocks and pried them apart, keeping her wide open, ripe for plucking.

When his tongue plunged inside her center, Sansa suddenly realized—she was taking him for a ride. His face was the quilt, the trunk, the wooden cock. She had fallen down on him. 

Sansa knew how to ride—Father taught her. On horses of course, not men. 

Sansa would teach herself how to ride a man. 

So she did. 

As Sandor held her tightly pressed to his mouth, Sansa fished in her skirts to take his sleek hair like reins, and she rode. She shifted her hips, grinding against his coarse lips and pushing her bud into his nose. His large nose was horribly delightful. The pliant tip of it sated her pulse, rubbing it to scorching heat with each of Sansa's strokes. 

And his tongue! Oh, his tongue could devour; yes, yes. It wound along her walls, scoured them for juice and left behind blissful warmth. It was so big and wet, a wild thirsting creature. A perfect mount. Sansa relaxed all her weight onto Sandor's face. She wanted that tongue deep as it could go, for cleanliness's sake. 

She would be sparkling clean after this. Sansa lifted her head to the puff-clouded sky and smiled. _What a good alpha_ , she thought. _He truly knows how to take care of his bird._ He didn't need to use his hands with a mouth like this. He probed her, and nuzzled, and growled into her achy flesh. If he was truly so hungry, Sansa had a special treat. She was already piping hot, her nerves white ember. They had been crackling this way for some time, and Sansa knew the feeling. She had let herself simmer atop Sandor. She wondered how long she could last, a bird perched at the edge of the world. 

With one more rumbling growl beneath her, she took off. She went beyond the clouds, to the heavens. She gripped her hat in two hands and faced them, flower throbbing, blood singing. 

_I like it here_ , she told the Maiden. _Can I please stay?_

Not a second later, her response came—hoofbeats sounded out down the lane at a brisk trot, and grew closer and closer yet. Someone was coming for them. 

_An intruder._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could it be 👀 
> 
> 'Til next time!


	9. Clean Peach Pluck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor scrubs his peach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy 🤠
> 
> I am absolutely ~jazzed~ to share this chapter. So much going on! The internal drama, sigh, it calls to me! A heads up, there is a sprinkling of dubcon, though admittedly this has all been dubcon, my apologies for not tagging it sooner. Eek! 
> 
> Anywho...what happens when Sandor's in a good mood? Read on to find out...

**Sandor**

Soon as the little alpha loosed a peach juice flood on Sandor's face, he came. Dumped a fresh load down his leg, and slurped her sweetness until his belly filled and his lungs ached for new air. And once his heart stopped ringing like ten dozen septry bells in his ears, he heard it— 

Hoofbeats. 

They came clip-clopping down the lane, an uneven cadence, a _clip-clip, clop-clop_. Sandor knew the sound. It was Old Lady Lydden on that lame mare of hers, Temperance or some such. He shot up to standing and practically threw the girl off him. She was looking all worried, wide-eyed and trembling, near caught in the act. "Be a good bird and hurry inside now," Sandor told her, turning her by the shoulders and giving her low back a nice shove. "It's the old lady, probably come with your pretty dresses." 

Sandor snatched up his hat before the bird fluttered back to the cabin. He had just enough time to fix his hair and put it on before Lydden rounded the last bend. Sandor nodded to her as she steadied the mare and eased herself off the saddle. While she went fishing in her bags, he redid his buttons and scoured the peach pulp from his chin with his sleeve. Shoulda dunked his face in the wash water to really get the smell gone, but he didn't have a chance. 

And Gods forbid, the old lady took one whiff and knew. She came to Sandor, her spindly arms balancing a round tin canister atop a bundle of cotton. "Is that how it is?" she said by way of greeting, a scowl on her age-soft features. Sandor grunted. He didn't offer to take her burden— his hands had to stay locked over the still-wet seed stain on his thigh. 

Lydden eyes dropped to that spot. She frowned. "I'll have words for you later. Where is she?" 

Sandor tipped his head towards the cabin. In a cloud of dust-bitten beta stink, the old lady was gone. 

_Seven be damned_. 

He'd really done it now. Lydden could only do so much as shame Sandor of course—he could snap her brittle bones like dry pine and have her buried in the hour. No one would come looking for her. Old Man Lydden was long dead. Her pups died out in the war. But Sandor was done killing. He was supposed to be done nettling the Gods, too. But here was, sucking down an omega maiden's nectar in broad daylight like he owned the damn thing. They wouldn't like that one bit, no ser. 

The girl wasn't his yet, no matter how often he feasted on her flower. Her alpha father was dead, but what of her stepfather? The one who must have fed her cake and bought her pretty satin dress. A beta, probably. Goddamn useless. Maybe worse than useless if he scared the girl away. 

Sandor stalked off to the well. He hoisted up a big bucketful of ice-cold water and stuffed his face in it. Gave it a good scrub, then washed his hands and arms up to the elbow. What he really needed to do was strip these pants. They had two loads worth of seed caked into the stitches. A real nasty mess, like a freshly presented alpha gone feral. He'd wash them once the old lady left, though what he really needed now was a dip in the creek. Something to slough the peach glaze from his pores. 

Sandor waited on the porch steps and sipped the whiskey he'd left behind last night. He heard soft voices inside, nothing he could distinguish. After a few more minutes, the clack of Lydden's boots came down the hall, and she opened up the front door. 

"The girl is in good spirits," she said, putting her reedy shadow over Sandor. He knew that, so he didn't say anything back. Mrs. Lydden clicked her tongue. "She says she doesn't want to live with her stepfather. He would have her marry a beta." 

Hah. _Worse than useless_. 

"But do you really think you can take care of a girl as gentle as her?" 

Sandor’s gut clenched, sharp with liquor. He looked up. The sun blazed over the old lady's hunched shoulders, so he had to put a hand to the sky to see right. He blinked a few times. 

"I'm no fool," he rasped. "I know what kind of creature she is." 

"Good," the old lady clucked. She shuffled past Sandor down the stairs, then turned to him one last time, her cloudy green eyes narrowed. "Because the young lady told me she wants to stay." 

Lydden gathered her dun-colored skirts and bustled back to her mare. She mounted, then shouted to Sandor, "And for the love of the Seven, get the poor thing a bath." 

With that, she trotted off, _clip-clip, clop-clop_. 

Sandor didn't go to his bird straight away. He gulped the whiskey. He was trying to slow down his heart. It was awful loud again, battering his ribs. Thought it might explode if he stood up too fast. _The bird wants to stay_ —had he heard that right? Cannon fire had messed up his ears something fierce, and his pulse was already ringing. But that's what the old lady said. _She wants to stay_.

But for how long? 

Too late to ask now. He'd have to consult the sweet peach herself. 

Sandor took a whole finger in one swallow, then another. No use. It was damn near thunder in his chest. When his name sounded from behind, soft as snow, his heart may very well have cleaved in two. He was hearing things. Only next two icy paws clawed past his hair and landed on the back of his neck. 

"Sandor," the little bird called again. "Didn't you hear me?" 

He bolted up to standing, though he staggered a bit, and sent the girl stumbling too. He caught her shoulder by one of her little puff-sleeves. A crushed blossom, now. She hadn't put on her new clothes. She was in her wispy underdress, her slim figure aglow in the late afternoon sun. Sandor breathed her in, hot peach stew. 

"You need a bath," he exhaled, low. The girl nodded. "I get one every week," she said. 

Of course she did, pretty thing like that. "Let me finish the wash, sweet girl," Sandor said. He released her shoulder, though he lingered to fluff her sleeve back up. And once he touched her there, his hand wanted to stay. So he stroked along her collarbone and up to her neck, and then he needed her face. He wrapped his palm around her jaw and traced her lips with his thumb. She smiled against it, then opened up. Licked his thumbprint with her little pink tongue, even nibbled and sucked on him. A real sweet sight. Calmed him down some. She had that effect. 

"I'll wait in my nest," she said, honey-sweet. 

"That's a good girl," Sandor replied. Before he knew, he bent down. Her red curls flared like silk ablaze, and he wanted a taste of them. He buried a kiss at the crown of her head, breathed. There was no finer flame. "Off you go," he said, and he gave her hair one final kiss.

Sandor finished the wash with bath time on his mind. Under a bright pink sky he scrubbed and rinsed and hung the girl's clothes up to dry. He worked so fast he forgot about his pants, but to all Seven Hells with them. His little bird needed the tub more. He would set it up for her real nice. 

He dumped the dirty water into the parched grass, then lugged the tub inside. He put it right beside the hearth, and set the cauldron to boil. Took a bit of tinkering to get the temperature just right. Sandor hadn't drawn a bath since Maggie—she had been small enough to fit in the tub. Sansa would be too. He could picture it now: her, stark naked, skin pale and glistening in the steamy water. Pretty. 

Appetizing. 

A sweet peach soup. 

As soon as he knocked on the door to her room, she called him in. Made him go foraging in her nest again—she decided she wanted to be carried. No problem for Sandor, since she was light as a pillow cloud. Wasn't a long walk either. But when he dropped her to her feet beside the tub, she didn't make a move. She stood there and stared up at Sandor, didn't blink once. 

He wasn't invited—right. "I'll wait out on the porch for you," he said. He went to leave, but the girl caught his wrist. 

"No," she said. "Help." 

She stretched her arms up and batted her lashes expectantly. Oh, he was more than invited. He would do the damn wash, like he did for all the creatures in his care. Only this creature was special. He hadn't seen her down to her skin. 

Sandor needed a long, slow breath. His cock lurked, hot-blooded. Did he dare? 

He did. These days, Sandor loved nothing more than to torment his poor cock. He picked up the girl's hem and lifted it over her head. 

Oh, there was a pretty peach. 

She was young, skin milky and bright and unblemished on slender limbs. But she was more than a girl, with peach buds for breasts, tipped in pink. Between her legs she had a sweet triangle of red hair. It covered the prettiest peach of all, and Gods above, Sandor wanted to pluck. His cock reared up against his thigh. His blood boiled. 

"What is it?" the bird asked. 

Sandor's blood bubbled right up to his face. "You're pretty," he breathed out. 

The girl blushed too, and looked to the ground, bashful. Sandor had put her on the spot. So he offered the girl a hand. She took it in two of hers, and he guided her into the tub. She fit perfectly with her knees curled up, the waterline dancing at the tops of her little tits. And the best part—she smiled. She had the whitest teeth, straight and starbright. Sandor's heart swelled at the sight. "Good?" he asked her.

"Good," she replied with a soft nod. "Wash me, please." 

Sandor was a good dog. He settled on his knees and took to scrubbing with a clean rag and lump of pine soap. He was gentle with her, didn't want to take off any of her pretty skin. He lathered and rinsed one little limb at a time. He scrubbed under her arms and between her toes, delicate with her blisters. She even let him soap up her maidenhair, though she squirmed some and clutched his arm to get him out of there. So he worked his way over her belly, and stopped at her tits. He watched them bob at water level, two perfect little fruits. He couldn't move. Had to swallow down her sweet steamy air. 

"Are they—are they ugly?" 

Sandor's eyes shot up. "No, little bird. Of course not." 

"Stepfather didn't like them. He said he liked my mother's better. He said mine should have grown in bigger." 

Sandor pushed a lungful of white ire from his nose. The little bird was frowning down on herself, on her pretty, perfect tits. "It's so silly," she went on. "He wasn't even married to mother! He married Aunt Lysa, but—but—"

She stopped herself short with a bout of sad sniffling. "Sansa," Sandor said, picking up her chin with a finger. "They're very pretty. The prettiest tits I've ever seen." 

"Really?" she asked. 

"Dogs don't lie," Sandor replied. 

"And they think little birds are pretty?" 

"They don't think—they _know_." 

Somehow Sandor had fallen closer. His arm draped over the lip of the tub. He didn't want to let go of the bird's face. It was small in his palm, a midwinter moonbloom. It was pretty as the rest of her, smooth and soft, shaped from porcelain. This close, he could see her little freckles, maiden's kisses that dotted the bridge of her dainty nose. And Sandor wondered—did she not know? Did she not understand that was the prettiest creature to walk the earth, or fly in its sky? 

Sandor knew this. He knew as sure as he knew his scars. 

"Little bird," he said. He set his forehead on hers. He wanted to swim in her eyes. "You're more than pretty. You're beautiful. Bright. Brighter than all the stars in the sky. You shine." 

Sansa's eyes turned glassy, then squeezed shut. She drew in her whole face like a little prune. She had done this to Sandor before. If he put her close, she got frightened. He didn't mind so much, because she didn't twist away. But this time, she pried open one eye and asked, "Are you going to do it?" 

"Do what?" 

"Kiss me." 

"Do you want a kiss?" 

The girl nodded and stitched herself back up. Sandor's heart thundered. He liked kissing. He kissed his pets often, the girl included. But not like this. He wasn't good at kisses like this, on the lips. His were rough, half-ruin, best avoided. He didn't like getting his scars close to girls' faces, because they did what Sansa did—they hid. "Little bird," he whispered. He brushed her puckered lips with his thumb. 

He had to try at least. He puckered up too, and pressed his mouth to hers. 

He liked it. 

He liked it a lot. 

It wasn't about his lips, it was hers. They were everything his weren't—plush and soft, pink clouds to rest on. That's what he did—he rested there. When he was ready, he tried it again. He pulled away by a hair, and set his mouth back down. It was nice. So he kept doing it, retreating, advancing. Like her little bird kisses. He pecked and pecked until her lips spread to a smile, and she started to giggle. Sandor growled. He came in for more. He pressed his mouth to hers, full-on, lips open. He tasted her smile and drank in her laughter. His tongue plunged to meet hers, a juicy fruit. There was so much to eat in here, and Sandor wanted it all. He leaned into her. He backed her against the tub; his arm slipped and fell into her sudsy water, _plunk._

He didn't care. His hand was that much closer to his favorite fruits, those tits of hers. He groped blindly at her chest until his fingers latched on. He held a handful of tender flesh. He ran a fingertip across a pointed nipple, and gobbled up a moan. _Good bird_. She pawed his chest and whimpered; Sandor swallowed. He licked her tongue, her teeth, the insides of her cheeks. He licked her lips, and why stop there? He licked the line of fuzz above them, and the slope of her tiny nose. He licked her eyelids and eyelashes. He licked her eyebrows. He licked her forehead, he licked her temples, he licked her cheeks. He sucked her cheeks, truly. They were full of rose-red blush, a delicacy, a mouthful. That brought him back to her lips. 

This time, he didn't kiss. He rested again. Her breath spilled from her in pretty shallow puffs. He gave her his breath in return. 

"Sandor," she whispered. "You haven't gotten my hair." 

Sandor fell back, extracting his drenched arm and giving it good shake beside the tub. He was slacking on the job. It wasn't just his cock riling him up—it was his heart again. Either his heart climbed up his throat, or the jammy peach air forced its way down. He couldn't breathe right. He couldn't see straight, truly. Two hearths blazed before him. Only one of them had blue eyes like crystal ponds. They disappeared into the tub, and her fire along with it. She gave her curls a good minute long soak, then burst from the water, her small breasts heaving. 

Sandor stuck his hands in her flame. He came around the back of the tub to do it. He soaped up her hair, combed it, rinsed it. He kept his hands there longer than necessary. He pet her little scalp, ran his fingers from root to tip. He pulled out single curls and watched them flicker and glow by firelight. Curious, he put a curl in his mouth, and swished it around. Tasted as good as it looked. No heat—just warmth. Sandor might have thought he'd had a slug of whiskey, the way his good cheek burned. 

And that was the problem—only the right side acted up. His left, which usually ached like ember, was dead as ash. Sandor couldn't believe it. He scooped a whole handful of damp hair and pressed it to his scars. Nothing _._

Nothing but his heart, attempting escape, echoing in his ears like a battlefield. Sandor's lips twitched. A battle, but he wasn't on the losing side. Suddenly, he could name the feeling— 

_Triumph._

The girl caught him grinning. She twisted around, grinned back, and said, "Are you thinking about how pretty I am again?" 

Sandor nodded. He didn't wait for an invitation this time—his lips plummeted to hers, stacking grin to grin. He had won. The girl was his, except for her pesky spotless neck. Sandor needed to remedy that. He hoisted the girl, dripping wet, from the tub. He needed to lay his claim. Their mouths stayed connected, exploring, as he brought her down the hall. She peeped when he kicked open his door, but he swallowed it. She peeped again when he threw her to the bed, but Sandor was quick to descend. 

His knees sunk into the mattress on either side of her thighs. He fell to his forearms and laid his mouth on her face, lips agape, tongue lolling. She wriggled, clawing at Sandor's chest. He ripped open his shirt, gave her his pecs. Her tiny fingers nestled into the hair there and pulled.

Pulled him _in_. 

It was time for pie. Sandor stuck an arm between them to undo his pants. Gods, his cock was happy to be in his hand. Anywhere but trapped in the dark, helpless. A few strokes and he was hard as live diamond. Adrift in his combat glut he came for her throat. He'd fuck her and eat her at once, the feast for he deserved for all his hard work and tender care. He primed the spot with a few kisses and licks. He fished past the bird’s maidenhair between her thighs, but her clammy hands latched onto his wrist. 

"No hands," she whispered into his ear. 

Fine, no hands down there. Didn't say nothing about his cock. Sandor tried to line himself up, blind. Couldn't bring himself to part from her neck. He felt the glow of her heat billowing up from her sweet peach. It would be a hot spring down there, a bath for sore flesh. But there was too much squirming and chirping. The bird squeezed her slippery thighs together and kneed Sandor's guts.

"No. No, no, _no_ ," she whined. 

She stunk again, like fruit mash underfoot, wasps descending. She stunk like the losing side. 

Sandor's cock lunged and he caught it. He nibbled the girl's neck and thrust himself bodily into his fist, flattening her back down. Her little hands went for his hair next. "No biting," she chirped, so Sandor had no choice but to go back to licks. Still, the girl yanked at his hair and peeped this thing or that. Sandor wasn't listening. His blood had more than boiled—it steamed, whistling in his veins. He fucked his hand to the tune of one high pitched squeal, with a whole mess of writhing limbs beneath him. The little omega begged to be conquered, all sickly sweet like that. 

Sandor lapped the scared sap from her neck. Then he licked her jaw and her chin and her mouth. She had made it small, her lips folded and bitten back. Sandor looked up to see her eyes wide and wet, tears sparkling in her lashes. 

He came. Put his pups on top of her maidenhair, though they should have gone in. 

Oh well. 

Sandor collapsed with his face pressed into the wet curls draped beside Sansa's head. His bare chest swelled against her tits. Her little nipples prodded his skin, stiff as steel. She whimpered at his ear. Sandor wasn't sure how to make it stop. He slipped his arms beneath her fragile waist and curled her tight, trapping his half-hard cock between their bellies. 

"Sandor," the bird whispered, a soft little song. "Why?" 

Sandor breathed in her damp hair and the dark musk buried in the pillows below. There was no hint of peach to be found. 

"Because you're mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🍑💦🍑💦🍑💦🍑💦


	10. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa needs a hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, welcome my dear cowfolk 🤠
> 
> A couple of notes to add: I've officially updated the chapter count! So yes, we're over halfway there. If you haven't guessed, this is absolutely an erotic novella, as it were. The porn _is_ the plot. This story is first and foremost for jacking off, and maybe for a little bit of weeping. Also, I gotta renege my promise for minimal angst. This bit dabbles in angst, and there will be some more intense angst as we reach our climax (teehee). I can't avoid it, alas! 
> 
> I'd like to recommend [Agnes Obel's Run Cried the Crawling](https://youtu.be/HpFAPApnzGE) to get you in the ~nighttime mood~ 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Sansa**

Belonging, like a half ton of unshorn timber, bore down on Sansa. _Mine_ , she thought, and she began to cry. She couldn't quite breathe so she sputtered wetly at Sandor's bad ear. He was drinking her hair again, like he had in the bath. "You made a mess," she whined, because that was the worst of it. She had survived that dark burning forest, virtue intact. "You made a mess," she said again, because Sandor sometimes needed things twice. 

With a grunt, he righted himself and scooped her up in those scary strong arms of his. Then she was back in the lukewarm bath, still a little weepy, while Sandor scrubbed his seed from her maidenhair and kissed the tears from her cheeks. He told her nice things, the things she liked. "There's a pretty bird. A proper clean one at that." He bundled her up in a fresh cotton towel and rocked her by the fire. His lap was a better place than his bed. His bed was like the hearth, where small creatures earned poor justice. 

And after all his nibbling, he needed more. He combed through Sansa's curls, which trickled down her back to the floorboards. He liked to keep his mouth on top of her head. He was tasting her up there. Oh, she had fed him three times today, and he was still hungry. Such work! 

Sansa must have dozed, because she woke to pitch dark in her nest. Knit blankets tangled and scratched her naked limbs. Her half-damp hair wriggled along her gooseprickled skin like a bouquet of cold snakes. Sansa twisted and turned, but her heart sat askew in her chest. It thumped incessantly between her legs. 

The mess wasn't on her—it was in her. She was the mess entire. 

Sansa's jaw set and her eyes burned with the telltale heat of tears. This was no life for a lady. She deserved buttery soft blankets with velvet coverlets and a dozen down pillows. Brella should have helped her into her nightgown, and tucked her safely in bed. This lady's tide, this heat, it was no good. Stepfather had been right. 

Stepfather was always right. 

Sansa cried. She cried and she fingered her achy bud and petals and she cried some more. Her hands were weak. She was a little omega, both lost and found. How cruel the Gods were to bring her to the hold of a strong pine, stout-branched, sap abundant. He had gnarled hands with fingers like thick roots sunk in soft earth. Sansa was the soft earth: gentle and dirty. 

A little animal, she had crawled her way through the dirt to this ramshackle ranch, to the reach of the biggest alpha in the whole world. _Her_ alpha, and yet they weren't promised. They hadn't given vows in sept. They hadn't exchanged cloaks or had a banquet or been carried up for their bedding. And they certainly hadn't given each other their special bites. The bite was the most important part: it meant you belonged to each other, forever. If the omega claimed first, no one could keep you apart—no stepfather, or sheriff, or even the president himself!

But only savages bit before vows. Sansa was no savage.

So she cried like the Maiden would if she was looking down on them now. She cried because this wasn't how things were supposed to be. Nothing had been as it should since Father died. Sansa had so many questions and no Randa or Mya or Jeyne to give answers. 

_What do you do_ , she wanted to know, _when you want to throw yourself in the flames?_

Sansa’s hands were too weak. She needed better. 

So she should at least get dressed, and maybe be a little prettier. Sansa eased open her trunk and took out one of her new dresses: a silk nightgown with billowy sleeves and ribbon-laced neckline. Mrs. Lydden said she would have given it to her daughter, if she had one. She gave it to Sansa instead. After she pulled the gown on, she wove two matching plaits by feel. She tied them with new silk ribbons and arranged them neatly over her chest. 

Aunt Lysa would have pinched her cheeks to make them redder. Sansa's blush glowed like two bloated rubies. It was her lady's tide. No pinching necessary. 

She crept from her nest, her prosthesis snug in her arms, a piece of her woods. She sniffed for Sandor—he had grown stinkier and stinkier. It was time for _his_ bath. He wasn't in bed or by the fire. Truthfully, Sansa heard him first. The rocking chair creaked out on the porch. When Sansa pushed open the front door, pale blue light and viscous sap fell onto her. She made a peep, and Sandor turned. He looked far-off, with stars in his eyes. He brought a bottle to his lips and drank heavily. He drank her in too, and said in a soft rasp, "Hi, pretty bird." 

"Hi," Sansa returned. She shifted on the balls of her bare feet, then stuck out her cock. "Help."

Sandor chuckled, moonlight winking on white teeth. He set his bottle down and beckoned her into his lap. When Sansa snuggled up, he put a palm on the cock she cradled against her chest. 

"Do you want me to use this?" he asked. 

Sansa shook her head. She traced the creased skin on his broad, hairy knuckles and the veins that wound like swollen rivers down the back of his palm. A godly creation, even the Maiden would admit. If the Gods had made this, and the tempest that churned inside her, would they be so cross if the two forces combined? 

"Your hands," she whispered. "I want you to use your hands." She looked to Sandor, but he wasn't looking at her—he watched the deep black sky and breathed shallow drags of it. 

"Am I bad?" Sansa asked. 

Sandor came back to her. He held her precious blush in his palm. "No," he said, sharp. "You're my good little bird. You can have whatever you like." 

Sansa smiled, and her open lips made room for Sandor's thumb. She liked that; she drew him in and licked and sucked. Sandor gave her other fingers, fingers that tasted the way his branch smelled. But his hand had important work to do, so he slid from her mouth, spit-shined, and snuck beneath her hem. 

It was glorious flame. Like the night in the loft, it was rescue, a fire fought with fire. Sandor's thumb circled her bud while his middle finger sunk inside her center. He nestled his mouth against her head and used gentle words to calm her. Sansa needed them; he had found her special spot. He wouldn't leave it alone. He braced Sansa with an arm around her shoulders as she shivered and whimpered. She took his other hand so it lay on her breast, their fingers interlocked over it. She ground her hips into his palm, and whispered, "More." 

Sandor gave her two fingers, and twice the pressure, and enough compliments to make Sansa's head float like a hot cloud. "Look at you, little peach," he told her. "You look so pretty on my hand. Do you like it? Do you like my fingers inside that sweet cunt of yours?" Sansa whimpered; these weren't questions for a lady to answer, and of course Sandor knew. "She does," he went on. "The little bird wants my hand. She's tired of her wooden cock. She's probably tired of her own hands, too small for such a terrible ache. But I'll help you, sweet girl. I'm a good dog." 

Sansa moaned deep like swansong. He was such a good dog, hungry but loyal, and ever obedient. She called his name, "Sandor;" she couldn't help it. He delved deeper, pressed the pads of his fingers into that sponge of flesh, a bed of nerves that sparked like kindling. But no, he had her smoldering, smelting raw earth to red-glow muck. "Sandor," she breathed, and again, "Sandor," and she felt his grin on her like the moon, and she gushed, and the moon kissed her, and he said, "There's a good girl. You can come on my hand." 

Her toes curled; her face rumpled. Her thighs clenched the muscular forearm between them as she freed her fevered tide, and burned up in her own storm. Sandor was there to lick the sweat from her temples and lay salt on her lips. 

"Again," Sansa said into his mouth, quietly, so the Maiden couldn't hear. "Please." 

Sandor obeyed. He withdrew at first and simply played with petals and fluffed her maidenhair. In no time, Sansa's greedy bud arose, and begged for proper touch. So Sandor returned to deliver gentle strokes. There was no hurry; there was only chirping grasses and a filtering breeze. Crisp spring air mixed with hot-blooded forest stink. Sansa filled herself with both. But the closer she came to her release, the further she burrowed into Sandor's chest, into the swell of muscle that shrouded his expansive ribcage. A home for something small and weak and in need of care. 

"I want to stay," she whispered. "I want you to be mine." 

It fell from her lips as prayer. Maybe Sandor heard, but he didn't reply. His belly rumbled; his cock stirred beneath Sansa's hip. When next she came, he throbbed alongside her. He was wasting pups again, because he was being a good dog, doing only as he's told. He waited a few minutes, breathing in Sansa's hair, before he started to touch again. 

Release came quickly; Sansa thought of pups. Then it was time to slow down. 

"I want you to stay, little bird," Sandor said. "I'll be good to you." And he was—he had two fingers inside her, gently plunging in and out, then circling her dewy entrance to coax out even more dew. But it was more than that. He held her, rocked her, trapped her in one single place in the wide open sky. He had bathed her and fed her and kissed her tears clean. Secretly Sansa had known as soon as she picked up his scent at the station that her future waited for her, out here in the wild. Like a bird she took flight, and roosted in this mighty tree. Like a little lady bird. 

"I know," she whispered, and she found her release, one last time. Sandor lingered inside her. Only when her flower settled, calmed to steady warmth instead of earth ablaze, did he extract his fingers. He sucked them dry. When he was done, he groped at his side and picked up his bottle again. It was a quarter full of liquor, with a sharp woodsy scent Sansa didn't care for. A scent he had stuck to her skin with every open-mouth draw. 

"It smells gross," Sansa said. 

Sandor wiped his mouth with his sleeve and replied, "It's not supposed to smell nice." 

"What's it supposed to do then?" 

Sandor grunted. He upended the bottle and let it spill through the cracks in his dark cheek down onto his shirt. He grimaced, but drank it empty, and dropped it to the porch with a hollow clatter. He sighed a dragon-breath sigh. "Help," he said. 

"With what?" Sansa asked. Father always said liquor was terrible medicine. 

She suspected Sandor knew, too. He wouldn't meet her eye; he was busy with the sky again. "Big things," he exhaled. "The night." 

Oh. Sansa understood. "You're afraid," she said. Sandor's face was shadow beneath the brim of his hat. Sansa's fingers navigated the dark to sweep aside his hair. She set her hand on his scars, fingers spread wide to rest on his tattered cheekbone. "I can help." 

Sandor put his hand atop hers. "Then help," he said. "Be sweet to me." 

Sansa smiled—this would be easy. She was ever so good with her courtesies. 

"Well, you're very strong," she began. "And very big. _So_ big, bigger than a man or an alpha or a tree, bigger than a mountain even. You're big like clouds and big like the sky. You smell so nice—well, you're a little too smelly right now, but we'll get you a bath. You're like a pine tree, did you know that? I smell like a pine tree too, because of you, and because of your soap. But I don't mind. It's a wonderful smell." Sansa shifted her seat to bring her face closer to Sandor. She lowered her voice for her next set of secrets. "I think of your smell when I practice sometimes. A lot of the time, truthfully. I've also thought of your branch. It's a nice branch, very big of course. I'm fond of big things, I think. You're my favorite big thing. My very big alpha. You're all mine."

Sandor shut his eyes. Warmth trickled over Sansa's fingertips and seeped beneath her palm. Sandor's heart echoed there, in his ruined skin, like fire alive. "Did I help?" Sansa asked. She put herself beneath his brim and touched the tip of her nose to his. "I get afraid sometimes too. I don't like the dark or the cold. When I was alone, on my walk, I thought of Father singing me to sleep. He used to sing when I got scared. Then he'd check my wardrobe for wights, just in case. He never found one. But I still got scared." 

"I'm afraid of the dark," Sandor said. "And fire. I hear both. I hear battle at night. The screaming. I smell the blood. It's blood, everywhere, blood. It comes back." 

"That's horrible. I _hate_ war." Sansa kissed Sandor's lips, so he would know she was telling the truth. She gave him a few more kisses. "I'm glad you survived. I'm sorry you had to kill people." 

"I am too," he replied. 

They kissed for a while longer, lips parted, tongues ambling. Sandor's tongue was gentle tonight. He wanted little licks of her tongue and her teeth and her lips. After they kissed, Sansa dropped back down to his chest. He wouldn't let her hand go, so she held his bad cheek. She hummed absently, a song of her own design that came to her with such a strong heart pounding against her ear. And her silly dog—he fell asleep. His head slumped back and his hat landed smack on the porch. 

He snored. 

"Sandor," Sansa whispered, and she shook his face. "It's bedtime for alphas." 

Sandor gave a drowsy nod. He swayed on his feet when he stood, and slung a heavy arm on Sansa's shoulders to steady himself. It took all her might to prop him up, bony shoulder to padded ribcage. They made their way to Sandor's bed, where he collapsed like a rotten log and breathed loud like he'd sawed himself down. Sansa had no choice but to pry off his dusty boots and free his big stinky feet. She tugged the quilt from beneath his deadweight, and tucked it all the way up to his scruffy chin. She brushed his hair so it fell prettily beside his shoulders. 

"Good night, big strong dog," she said, putting a kiss on his forehead. "Sleep tight." 

With one more kiss, she left. She padded silently down the hall, and bedded in her nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 'Til next time!


	11. Worm in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa eats breakfast in her nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hiiii it's me! Come to share the next installment of this wacky fic! I don't have much to add except that Redbirdblackdog was kind enough to make the pic set that I've included below 😍 I appreciate so much all the support I've gotten for this story! I never thought it would get much attention because I am well and truly running away with my own silly headcanon, but look at us, here we are =^.^= I've been dreaming up the end of this fic and I've gotta say, each chapter will just get spicier and spicier. 
> 
> Yeehaw! 🤠

**Sandor**

Sandor woke at first light. His teeth and tongue were gummed up with sour liquor and peach. He was in bed, face cradled in cream cotton pillows. Good. He didn't always make it to bed. He had even taken off his boots. Double good. Rising was a process. His bones were heavy and moved like sluggish stone. His head was a hollow cavern, bats screeching. He pissed pure liquor into his pot and carried it outside in pale dawn. Tossed it in the grass, went to the well. 

He was thinking hard through the thump of black wings against his skull. Dunked his face in a fresh bucket to drown them out. It worked; he saw his little bird there, in the cold wet dark. He grinned a mouthful of bubbles. _Hi, sweet girl._

_Gross_ , she said back. 

Right—she didn't like liquor stench. Sandor burped in his bucket and a dollop of sick clouded it up. He pitched the water to the side, then stripped bare. He'd have himself a nice little bird bath. 

The creek was better, no doubt. But the late night was coming back to him in glimpses hot and bright like flame. The girl, smiling. The girl's eyes, two moon-blue saucers. _You're afraid_. Ma was always telling him the moon knew all, and Ma didn't lie. Fancy that. 

_I can help._

It took five bucketfuls to cool Sandor off after that little echo. He savored each pour, tipped the bucket high overhead and let water trickle like snow melt on flushed skin. But thoughts lead to other thoughts, and Sandor got to remembering what had come next: her sweetness. 

It was all in one word: _big_. No, more. _Very big._

_Very strong._

Oh, and the best word of all: _mine_.

Sandor's hand was on his cock. He was washing it at first, scrubbing the sweaty funk from his hair and bollocks. But it's easier to get your cock clean if it's hard, to get under the skin and all. So Sandor stroked. He glanced over his shoulder now and then, to make sure the bird didn't peep. He could see it, her, with her little head half-buried in his hat again. Maybe she'd come out in his boots, too. Hah. A real sweetling of an alpha. 

Sandor wore an idiot grin as he worked his cock. He splashed a palmful of water onto it every so often, and the cold made him harder. It reminded him of the girl's hand on his bad cheek. Of her help. He needed help alright. Not a wooden cock, not an overripe melon on a bet from the boys down south, not even a timid peach. He wanted those icicle paws. Start slow. Spring started with snow. Spring started with baby birds and tight blossoms. You kept them warm and watered them, eventually you'd have something to eat. Something that helped you right back. 

Sandor spilled his seed in the grass. Wasn't the first time. He gave his cock and his hands one last rinse, then shook himself dry. Dawn was done being pink. A big sun loomed to the east in full blue sky. Lady came loping from the cabin, tail wagging, slobber dripping from saggy jowls. Breakfast time for pretty pets. 

Sandor left his soiled clothes by the well. Went back to his room and fetched a fresh set, his cornflower blue button-up and his brown canvas pants. His last good pair—next he'd be wearing his tattered uniform. He combed his damp hair neatly over his scars down to his shoulders. Not a horrible sight, maybe. He didn't own a looking glass. 

Lady got a bowl of livermush for breakfast. Sandor fried up sausage and eggs and a hunk of bread for himself. The bird still hadn't chirped. Long night for her too. So he ate his breakfast, then boiled a pot of coffee over the hearth and drained a mug of it, waiting. He paced around, barefoot like his bird, floorboards complaining underfoot. He and Lady hovered by Sansa's door. She was sleeping, or petting herself awful quietly. Sandor sniffed the gaps in the doorjamb to make sure she hadn't disappeared, but no, she was there, however faintly. His sun-warmed peach. 

She was a little lady of course, so Sandor ought to bring breakfast to her nest. That would do. She wasn't eating much, what with her heat and all, but she liked warm sweetmilk. She'd suck Sandor's honey dry, that little hummingbird. Maybe they'd go up to Hornvale together after this mess. Bring a cart of cured beef to sell, then shop some. Sandor could buy her pretty ribbons and dresses, whatever she liked. He'd buy a whole caskful of honey if she asked. 

Sandor was too busy smiling to knock on the girl's door. He hadn't realized what he'd done until he'd landed outside her nest and pulled back her curtain wall. She was up, a silk-swathed doll, scrambling to hide something behind her back. Sandor stood there, dumbstruck. What a pretty girl, with rubies for cheeks and sapphires for eyes. Mostly he watched the two budding fruits on her chest heave and fall with each startled breath. 

"Sandor," she whined, and his eyes went north. He held out the mug of milk. 

"For you, sweet girl," he said. 

Sansa half-smiled. Her little brows were rumpled with worry. "You can set it on the trunk."

Sandor knelt and dipped partway inside to put down the mug. It was warm in the nest, like a sunny southern orchard, early summer. Real cozy. The girl hadn't taken her hands from behind her back. She was staring, hard. 

"Show me," Sandor said. 

Her rubies flared, but she surrendered her wooden cock, _glistening_. Her little hands glistened too—peach juice. "I wasn't—I was—I'm trying—" she said, then put the tip of the cock to her mouth. Her tongue darted out to deliver a single lap. "Like you did." 

Sandor grinned. "Is it good?" 

The girl gave a swift nod. She shuffled over on her knees to claim the mug in two sticky hands. She gulped down half the milk, then huffed a sigh to blow loose curls from her face. She turned to Sandor. "You can come in for breakfast if you like," she said, sweet again. "Mrs. Lydden didn't bring any cake, but she baked shortbread." 

The bird prepped her nest for Sandor's visit. She told him he needed to clean his big stinky alpha feet first, so he went to her washstand and gave them a nice scrub-down with the rag. He came back to tell her he was clean everywhere else; he'd washed that morning. He puffed up his chest to make his new shirt obvious. The girl blushed. "I know," she said. 

So she had him crawl inside, and she stuck him in the corner, his legs stretched the length of the skinny mattress. She crouched between them as she arranged her bird breakfast. Lydden had given her a whole tin of shortbread. Sandor held the milk while Sansa parsed out four cookies on the upturned lid, humming as she went. She nibbled the end of each one, then stuck the rest in Sandor's mouth. He chomped down to her little fingertips, she giggled, and then she did it all over again. When she finished her meal, she put a hand on her belly. 

"I'm so full," she sighed. "But I'm _hungry_. I'm hungry in a different way. It's—it's—" she lowered her voice to a whisper "—it's my bud." 

Sandor forced down a dusty lump of shortbread. His cock stirred with sympathetic greed. 

"I know, little bird," he got out, throat dry.

"He's hungry too," Sansa said. She ran a finger along Sandor's bulge. "He's getting big."

Sandor clenched the mug in his fist so tightly he was surprised it didn't snap. The girl noticed and took it away from him, back to the trunk. She watched Sandor's cock turn hard, sapphire eyes sparkling. Sandor's fists were empty at his sides now, white-knuckled as ever. He was afraid if he moved his thumb, freed up his fingers, they'd latch onto those plaits first thing. Drag down the girl's head, stuff her small peach mouth with a hearty pine bough. 

"I need to practice," she said, gaze low on him. But when Sandor made a move to leave, to let her pet herself in peace, she put one paw to his chest and pushed him back down. "Stay." 

Sandor stayed. The girl reached for her cock and set it between them. "I can show you, if you like. I'm very good at riding."

Cautiously, Sandor unbound his right hand. He picked up his bird's cheek and stroked her little nose with his thumb. "Please," he said. "I'd like that very much."

That earned him an ear-to-ear smile. So what if Sandor caked-up his pants again—he had a front row seat to his little omega's show. She pressed one palm around the bollocks, and shifted up onto her knees to cloak the cock in her nightgown. She put her spare hand on Sandor's shoulder, fingers curled at the base of his neck. She took in a big breath, big enough for her nipples to strain through sheer silk. 

She sunk down, and Seven Above, she made the prettiest little face Sandor ever did see. Her lips parted to a sweet oh, and her brows surged to a peak. And her fingers, her cold, tiny fingers dug into Sandor's neck. "Good girl," he breathed out, and his thumb plunged past those red-fruit lips to toy with her tongue. She liked her treat. She eased up and down on her cock, and sucked on him, putting out little mewls that tickled his skin. He saw only the scrunching of silk between her thighs as her hips rolled, but each dip took her lower. "You're the prettiest little cock rider, aren't you?" he told her. "And so brave too, with all that length. My brave little omega." 

Her whimpers turned to moans, a feast of song. Sandor's cock flailed in its trap. He skirted a palm over his bulge, and like a hawk, Sansa's eyes were on him. "Take out your branch," she said. "I want to see him." 

Sandor had never unbuttoned faster. His cock came free, dark with blood and pulsing hot as coal. Sansa watched him. She rode; he stroked. His hand felt divine under her stare. It was that sky-high sensation, all his meat and muscle turned to a weightless cloud. "Good alpha," Sansa puffed between drops on her cock. "You're being so good." 

Sandor bit down a growl. He knew he was good, obedient, albeit sometimes willful, commanded by hunger and hunger alone. But in this pretty peach nest, he was under the rule of his little lady bird. He knew what ladies liked: manners. 

Sandor ought to practice his manners. 

"Pretty bird," he began. He brushed his knuckles down the length of her plait. "Will you help me?" 

"Do you want my hands?" she asked.

"Yes, please." 

The girl pulled in her lower lip. "Well, if you hold my bollocks, I'll pet your cock. Is that fair?" 

Sandor nodded, and stuffed a hand beneath her hem until his fingers found dew-drenched wood. He gripped the bollocks, and slowly, her hands worked their way to him. She was timid. Her first touch was an icicle jab to the tip of him. Sandor's cock bounded up to batter his gut. He groaned. The girl grinned. "So silly," she chirped, and then ten little icicles were on him. Half in the hair at his base, half trailing a feathery slug of snow up his length. No goddamn pressure, so his cock was left to writhe like a worm in the sun. 

Now he was giving the show. His bird giggled and poked at his cock, that poor sundazzled creature. Sandor latched onto one of the girl's plaits, gentle, to stay himself. He didn't know if this counted as help or torment, his pretty bird pecking at him as he lay cusping ruin. She had a new gleam in her eye: greed. 

"More," Sandor rasped. "Hold him."

Two cold palms wrapped around his shaft. Her fingertips barely met in the middle. 

_She squeezed._

"Seven fucking hells," Sandor groaned. The bird's eyes narrowed. 

"No cursing," she huffed, and she squeezed him again, much harder, so hard that red flesh swelled in the gaps between her fingers, and purple blood pooled at his head. Sandor set his jaw and ground his teeth, soon to be white grit in his mouth. He dropped his head back to the wall, defeat. The bird played with her food. She wanted to turn his cock colors. She'd wait until he went near blue, then she'd release and watch red flood in its place. After that, she mimicked Sandor's strokes, but not quite. She dragged both her hands, slow and deep, up his length. She'd palm the tip and look up every time to admire the tension in Sandor's face, as though she'd be glad to see his skull shatter. 

Mercifully, she found a rhythm. She scooped dew from beneath her skirts, and slathered it on his shaft. She bounced on her cock and her hands glided along him in time. She was real proud of her work, all smiles and these happy bird titters. "Am I good?" she asked. 

Sandor nodded. "So good, little bird," he said through tight teeth. "The best." 

"Better than you?"

"Better than me." 

Oh, she liked that. She ground further down on her cock. Sandor had kept his thumb stretched along the knot, a little test to see how deep she'd go. Her petals loomed above it. Juice oozed down to coat his hand. "Sandor, I'm—I'm—" 

He dropped his grip just as her flower pulled in the top of the knot. She mewled and sagged a bit. Sandor caught her at her neck, propping up her chin with his thumb. "There's a good bird," he soothed. "My brave little bird." 

She gave him a trembling smile and water-lush eyes. "I can fit all of you," she said. "Even though you're big. Do you—do you want to see?" 

Sandor's gut responded for him, rumbling like a ten ton mountain blast. The girl took her hem and sidled it up her thighs to reveal her fuzzy peach, stuffed halfway with his knot. Sandor's cock jerked out of her grip. His sack ached. His sack was the goddamn dynamite, one spark away from blowing pups up her mound. "Pretty little peach," he growled. 

"Sandor," Sansa whimpered. She slipped another fraction of an inch. Her fingers fumbled for his cock but couldn't latch on. "I'm going to—I need—make your pups. Put your pups in me." 

Her flower fell. Plush petals mashed against Sandor's hand on the bollocks, juices flowed, and he exploded. His seed jutted out, and the girl's palm was there, cupping his tip, capturing what she could. He filled her out; the rest sluiced down his aching cock. 

"Good dog," she whispered. "Very good dog." She held out her palmful of pups. "You made a mess though," she said. "Clean it up, please." 

Sandor eyed his seed. He should grab a blanket, or the kerchief in his back pocket, but his hands were set in more important places. So he stooped down, and slurped the pups straight from her palm. The girl giggled, so he kept licking. He licked her fingers clean, and after that, she scooped the jammy seed from his wilting cock and stuffed it in his mouth. He took each offering, sucking her fingers dry, nibbling them until she laughed and squirmed and pried them free. 

When Sandor was sufficiently tidy, she fixed his cock in his pants and buttoned him back up. Then she fell into his lap, curled up like a little chick against his chest. "I'm catching," she told him. "So we have to wait a while. Will you tell me a story?" 

Sandor pet her plaits, and stuck his nose atop her head to get a nice whiff of peach. "Of course, sweet girl. I'll tell you whatever you like." 

She wanted to know about the ranch today. 

She wanted to know about Sandor's family, where they had gone off to. Dead, dead, dead. Gregor wasn't dead enough; he was the darkest shape in Sandor's starbright sky. But he was dead, gone from earth. Sansa was glad about that. She was glad to learn he had a mother and a sister, who he confirmed were very pretty and sweet and nice, much nicer than Gregor. She wanted to know about the horses and the cows and the crops. She wanted to know how Sandor did all his chores by himself without any help. "I'm not very good at chores," she told him. "I'm better at singing and sewing cushions." 

Sandor barked a laugh at that, but kissed her head so she didn't feel too bad. 

"Will you show me?" she asked. She peered up at him, doe-eyed. "Will you show me the ranch?" 

The burnt half of Sandor's lips twitched to a shaky smile. "Of course," he answered. "Anything for my little bird." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next - a lil bit of outdoor fun 🍑💦 hoping to have it up midweek!! 'Til then!


	12. Honeybear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes for a ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy 🤠
> 
> Due to mid-cycle mania, y'all are getting a very prompt update 😍 I'm deep in the story zone, and truly loving every single chapter. It's all gonna come together pretty quick! Yeehaw! If you're interested, daddystiltskin made this [lovely moodboard](https://weheartit.com/elnewton/collections/179538442-fic-aes-hard-times-at-clegane-ranch-sansan) so you can get in the zone too 🍑
> 
> Enjoy!

**Sansa**

Breakfast was such fun—Sandor was a very well-behaved guest. Sansa had her best ride yet, and when Sandor eased out her wooden cock, he cleaned it right up, and tucked it safely in her trunk. He helped her get dressed. Sansa picked out a starchy egg-shell blue dress from Mrs. Lydden. It was plain cotton, two pieces, with puffy long sleeves and ribbon lacing at the back. Sansa stood in her nest and Sandor knelt behind to tie up her loose ends. He fixed her hose and boots, but not before giving her each of her toes a sweet kiss. He laced her up very gently. 

Sansa waited in the rocking chair on the porch, swathed her newly cleaned quilt, while Sandor did the boring chores. Happily, Mrs. Lydden had brought her cloth scraps and sewing pouch with needle and thread, so she could practice her stitching. She said ladies ought not to go long without it—very true. So Sansa stitched. It was a special piece for her alpha, very secret, _shhh!_ She watched him wash her drawers and chemise and rinse her pot—a little embarrassing. He swept up the inside of the cabin and carried a basket of potatoes and onions and a long string of sausage out from the cellar. 

"We'll eat well tonight," he said. 

Sansa hid her embroidery in the quilt each time he passed by to give her a kiss on the head, which was quite often. When it was time to work in the barn, he came around to the back of her chair and hoisted it up by the seat. "Your escort's here, little princess," he said, laughing when Sansa squeaked in surprise. He carried her throne across the yard and into the stinky barn. 

Sandor made it less stinky. He cleared out all the soiled bedding, and talked very sweetly to his three horses. Sansa got up to meet them all. Stranger was a black stallion. Nymeria and Grey Wind were both matching grey palfreys with bright eyes. Sandor lifted Sansa by the waist so she could kiss their silky muzzles. Then it was back to stitching. 

Sansa could dress and groom a horse, of course. Father had taught her. She told Sandor that, and she told him she even knew how to help the farrier. All Starks did, even though Father was a railroad man. That was before he got sent to lead men into war—Papa owned the coal that powered the trains, the iron horses. He loved real horses better. So Sansa promised she would help, when she wasn't tide stricken. 

After Sandor mucked and refreshed the stalls, Sansa told him she really needed help. His pretty blue shirt was sticky with alpha sweat and reeking of pine. His muscles looked ever so strong pressed against his seams. Sansa was on fire down there, leaking dew on fresh silks. So Sandor plucked her up and set her on his tool bench, clearing out his wooden handled tools, leather scraps, and stacks of irons nails with one sweep of his brawny arm. 

He spit in his kerchief and wiped two fingers clean. They went under her skirts and up into her rosy center. Sansa said it was alright if Sandor touched his branch, too. It was quite the sight. Better than his stiff red branch itself was Sandor, stroking. A big hand for a big branch. He worked it along his length at a furious pace, and the hand inside Sansa matched. He pounded her tender center, milked her for dew, and didn't stop until she cried his name and sunk her nails into his thick neck. His seed went to the dirty ground. He mashed it in with the heel of his boot. 

"Are you ready to ride, little bird?" 

Sansa thought she was ready to ride, but as soon as Sandor bundled her up, quilt and all, and hoisted her onto Stranger's back, her eyelids drooped. A few minutes at a steady trot, snuggled in the potent pine-sap cloud at her alpha's armpit, she visited the land of dreams. There was a sweet meadow there, and pups like flowers with bright hair and dimpled smiles, dancing in the grasses. To guard them: a pine that stretched to the sky. A pine as big as a mountain. 

"We're here, little bird," said the tree, and he cupped her cheek with rough fingers calloused like bark. Sansa opened her eyes, and the dream didn't disappear. A grazing pasture of long green grass spread like the sea before them. Instead of pups there were cows, at least a hundred cows, chestnut brown and splotchy—Sandor's herd. 

He didn't have names for them, can you believe it? He had named the bull of course, Duncan the Tall, who was naturally the beefiest of the lot. But Sansa had to choose the lady's names: Biscuit, Flower, Prudence, Sabitha, and Maggie. "We can't use Maggie," Sandor grumbled atop her head. "That was Margaery's pet name." 

Oh. Sansa frowned and furrowed her brow. "We'll name one of our pups for her then," she said. 

A gentle kiss landed on her crown. "Of course we will, little bird." 

Sandor had to tend to his herd, of course. He set up a makeshift nest for Sansa on a grassy knoll, where she could watch from above. She had snuck her stitching and sewing pouch in her skirts. Perfect for a little bird. She worked on her piece for Sandor and watched him like a cloud above. He wanted her to stay here—he had told her that, remember? He said, "I want you to stay, little bird." He was going to keep her, _forever_. 

Or at least that's what Sansa hoped. There would be no proper engagement in the wild of the mountains, but it's not like Father was even here to give permission. Sansa fell on her back to watch the blue dome above her. Father lived in the Heavens now, with Mother, Robb, Bran, Arya, and Rickon. You were supposed to pray in septs, but Sansa felt a prayer come to her, in her quilted hilltop nest. "Please can we be married?" she sweetly asked her Father's spirit, which might have been the high up cloud shaped like a snarling wolf's head. 

"He's a good alpha, you see. Like you. And I've been very good. I'm going to take care of horses and washing. I'm going to bake cakes for our pups and sew their clothes. I found Sandor, and he's going to keep me. Or did you lead me here? Did you pick him out for me? I think you did." Sansa puckered her lips, and put two air kisses on white wolf's muzzle. "I miss you Father. I think of you often. And thank you very much. Thank you for Sandor." 

Sansa dozed in sun sweet and golden as honey. She dreamt of honey, and roused sticky between the legs. Her own hive—but where were the bees? She propped onto her elbows to see Sandor far below, rubbing green herb poultice on Biscuit's haunch. An infected cut, maybe. Poor sow. But that was Sandor's problem. Sansa's problem was the sweltering flush on her cheeks and flower. Worse than the pounding of her pulse was the soreness in her belly. All that milk, and she needed to make water. But she couldn't do it in her nest, obviously. She needed woods or brush, a little privacy. She was a lady. 

She scrambled up to standing. She couldn't walk fast; her tummy sloshed and ached down to her bud. So she crept down the hill, clutching her belly, thighs sealed together. Though with each step they slid, slick with dew and water. She stuffed her skirts between her legs and held her flower, but then she was forced to waddle, heels dragging in the lumpy grass. She whimpered. Her fingers certainly wouldn't be able to hold back her water. And she would never forgive herself if she soiled her skirts like an unpresented pup. 

Heart aflutter, she staggered into the treeline and toppled into the nearest pine face first. She caught herself on her forearm and hitched her hem just as her tummy relaxed and let loose its flood. She whimpered as warm water splattered to dry earth. Her bud _hurt_. When her water was done, she tiptoed to a soft bed of pine needles, and simply collapsed. She didn't care if dirt stained her new dress. She needed help, fast. 

She foraged up her skirts, and sure enough, her petals were hot to the touch and Gods forbid, _syrupy_. Like a tapped maple, late winter, at a thousand times the speed. And oh, thinking of trees was a mistake. "Sandor," she called, and her bud echoed with a boom. Sansa rubbed there as fast as her little fingers could. Her wrist went stiff and burned like flame and still she pressed. She needed that branch! She needed those pups! 

Where was the nearest sept? 

It was time for vows! 

It was time to bite! 

At that, her honeypot shattered. Warm sap spurted between her fingers and spilled into her skirts. Her bud hummed, her center danced along with it. But her blood didn't calm. It was a stormy sea in her belly, churning for something better, something stronger. Sansa couldn't take much more. Her face was wet with sweat and tears. Little birds shouldn't have to work so hard for their release. That was her alpha's job! 

A twig cracked from across the clearing and Sansa jolted upright. Sandor was there—probing her puddle with the toe of his boot. He turned to her, eyes dagger-sharp. 

"I lost you, little bird," he said in a cutting rasp. "I didn't like that. There are bears in these parts. Big ones." 

Two steps and he towered at her feet. The sun hid behind the treetops; he put her in a thick trunk of shadow. Only his eyes and fangs shone bright. Sansa knew what he saw: the dark blue splotch above her flower, her sweet spoils. She whimpered and scrambled backward on her palms— _bears like honey too_. This big bear crouched and snared her ankle. One tug dragged back through prickly needles and threaded her legs between his. A growl dropped heavy onto her face as he plucked her up by the neck. Her heart climbed into her throat and shouted in her ears. 

He was hungry. 

For _her_.

His big tongue scoured his top row of teeth, then the bottom, as his thumb rubbed the delicate skin at her throat. _Not like this._ Sansa put a fingertip to his hooked nose and her nail dug in. 

"No," she told him. She was the hive entire, bees and their nectar both. "Down." 

Sansa met Sandor’s bloodthirsty stare dead-on. His hand slipped from her neck, and she wriggled from beneath him to stand. He fell to his knees, face level with her chest. He liked to look there. Sansa allowed him a moment before cupping his burnt jaw and tilting his face up.

"Do you want my help?" she asked. 

Sandor's jaw clenched in her hold. His eyes burned bright. He nodded. 

"Well, it's my lady's tide, so it's my turn first. Lay down." 

It was a staring match as he lowered himself slowly to his back, treefall. His hair fell too—no more shadow. His scars glittered in the sunlight, a cut surface of obsidian and ruby, ripe for mining. Sansa stepped over him, one boot perched on either side of his hips. She had almost forgotten how nice he looked from above, her big pet. He was much more manageable flat on the piney ground. Flat, except for… 

"What are you doing, pretty peach tree?" he asked in a low growl. 

Sansa smiled down at him, at the branch bulging from his tan pants. 

"I'm going to ride.” 

In a puff of blue cotton she dropped to her knees, trapping that branch beneath her flower. It throbbed and burned hot with blood, even through a layer of thick canvas. He had a will of his own—Sansa had learned that this morning. She perched upright with her hands on Sandor's ample chest. She swept her hips forward, up the length of his bulge, and shuddered as her bud beat against him. "Oh, little bird," Sandor growled. He invaded her skirts to grab her bare thighs and steady her perch. 

She rode. There was plenty of dew to gloss her path. The stiffness of Sandor's branch was true torment. It wasn't like the wooden cock, unyielding. It was warm and alive, with a little bit of give. Sandor liked when she ground her entire weight onto him to squish him down. He made silly faces like he did in her nest. His huge nose twitched and his nostrils flared. His jaw quivered like a kettle set to steam. He didn't blink once. 

And he breathed so funny, in uneven rumbles, as if he was scaling a trench and tumbling right back down. His fingers sunk deeper and deeper into Sansa's thighs. He was pulling her into him, pleading for her to roost. At the end of her next stroke, her bud pulsed white-hot, the beginning of the inferno, the inevitable fiery end. She slumped onto Sandor's chest. She listened to his heart batter his ribs. She felt it on her flower. She didn't have to shift her hips a single inch. She imagined him, buried inside, ten thick inches, knot swollen, pups planted in her womb. 

Sansa reached blindly to take Sandor's dark cheek. "I'm coming," she whispered, as her flower flared in bursts, each one stronger than the last, until the strongest ripped through her and turned her world snow white. "Oh, Sandor, I'm coming," she whispered once more. 

Sandor freed her thighs, and his strong arms crossed over her back to cradle her at the shoulders. "Good girl," he breathed down on her. "I've got you." 

They rested together for a good long while. It was a pretty day, with a sparkling sun, birds chirping, bugs buzzing. If Sansa truly listened, she swore she heard the goldencups bloom and blackberries ripen in their thickets. And everywhere, steaming up from the earth itself: hot pine. It crackled in high afternoon from their bed of dry needles. It seeped from the trees that encircled them as dark green guardians. There used to be Old Gods, you know. Before the First Men. This was very ancient history, and you weren't supposed to believe in them. But Gods lived in trees, little forest pups. They watched over the world. They smiled like the sun. 

"What's that grin for, little bird?" Sandor asked. He pet Sansa's head and looked on her with low-lidded eyes. She pulled up to nuzzle her smile into his smelly neck. Her answer was here. 

"I'm happy," she told him. "I'm the happiest bird in the whole world." 

Sandor's belly rumbled and his cock stirred beneath her. Oh! He still needed help. Sansa slipped over to lay flush against his side, then reached down to undo his buttons. His swollen branch was far too big for her fist, but she stroked. Sandor spit in his palm to slick himself up. He held Sansa's hand on him and slid her from base to tip. He helped her find a suitable pace, then let her work all by herself. It was her turn to be nice. 

"Good alpha," she said, and she kissed the dampness at his armpit where her head lay. "You have a very strong branch. Do you like my hand on it? I'm a little small, since you're so big. And so strong. I can feel your heartbeat."

Sandor groaned in reply. His branch quaked. "Are you close?" Sansa asked. He nodded, eyes white and wide and shiny as silver. "Here," she said. She didn't want to make a mess of his shirt. She shifted down until her lips lined up with his reddened tip. Cautiously, she set her lips there and gave him a single kiss. He didn't make his pups, so she kissed him again, and again. Then she opened wide and wrapped her lips around him. She squeezed him tight. He throbbed. She unfurled her tongue and licked his smooth head, then dipped down to trace the ridge below. 

"Sansa," he growled. Two big palms rested lightly on her head. Sansa lapped faster; she even sucked on him like a lemon drop. "Oh fuck," he moaned, and like that, his pups rushed forth. "I'm happy too," he breathed, and seed pulsed, filling Sansa to the brim. "I'm so happy you're here," he said, and Sansa swallowed down her bitter and slimy mouthful. Sandor pulled her up by the plaits until her forehead rested against his. "You're so good," he told her. He smashed his lips to hers. "You're so pretty. You're mine." 

"Forever?" Sansa asked. 

"Forever," Sandor replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinnertime up next! It's gonna be a bonafide banquet of feels.
> 
> 'Til then!


	13. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor eats dinner with his little bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey howdy hey 🤠
> 
> Welcome to my fave chapter thus far! It actually ended up being split in two - you'll see why at the end. Read on for turbo-tender content. Because I like to stay clowning, I wanna link [Yung Lean's Fallen Demon](https://youtu.be/LIDIO-gUef0) as the ~vibe track~. The amount of times I have thought of Sandor and listened to this song...simply embarrassing 😔 and yet I persevere. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Sandor**

Sandor planned a special dinner for him and his little bird: potato dumplings, just like Ma used to make. He made them every Smithsday in her honor, even though it took a few precious hours to boil the filling, roll out the dough, and stuff them full. But if his bird was going to stay forever—well, she'd need to learn how to make them too. 

He brought her home from the pasture in one pretty piece. She napped in her nest while Sandor got Stranger undressed and settled in his stall, then resurfaced, all smiles, when Sandor came to collect her. "Dinner time?" she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

"Time to cook," Sandor replied. "We're having dumplings." 

"Like the food people make on the street!" she chirped. Sandor laughed. "Like the food people make on the street," he echoed back.

The bird fluttered at Sandor's elbow as he set to work chopping. She used his spare paring knife to cautiously peel potatoes, though by the time she finished two, Sandor had the other dozen stripped bare. He let her have a go with the onions next, but they made her big blue eyes turn red and gush like little streams. Sandor finished those off, too. 

She helped dump everything in the bubbling cauldron over the hearth. She liked that part a lot. She'd take a chunk of potato, reach her little arm as far as it would go, scrunch up her face, turn away, then gingerly plunk each piece into the water. Took a damn long time, but she was so sweet about it, Sandor didn't rush her. 

The dough was her favorite thing. "I helped Old Nan make dough in the kitchens," she said. _Kitchens_ , plural. Sandor's whole cabin was the damn kitchen. There was scarcely enough room for both Grandfather's hand-carved cupboard and the table to fit at once. He didn't have a stove, for Gods' sake. But no matter—he didn't need a stove to make the girl happy. She smiled as she beat the ball of dough with two gentle fists. She tried to roll it, but she liked it better when Sandor took the pin from her and squashed the whole lot across the table in one long swipe. He cut a towering pile of small squares, ready to be filled. 

Her tiny fingers were perfect for stuffing and folding dumplings. Sandor mashed the potatoes and onions with butter, salt, and shavings from his last wheel of hard cheese. The bird knelt in a chair beside the table and spooned a measure in each wrapper, then pinched it tight. Each one turned out prettier than the last. She was as good as Ma and Maggie had been at it. Too finicky for alpha hands. They needed that sweet omega touch. 

After she had a platter piled high with dumplings, she turned to Sandor and gave him a look he'd never seen. No, wait—it was a look he'd seen on her just today, when she stood over him in the woods. 

_Trouble._

A tiny treeful of trouble. 

Her eyes shone. She smirked, then she stuck her floury little paws square on Sandor's gut, leaving two sticky white handprints on his nicest shirt. She didn't even run. She batted her lashes and twisted the toe of her boot all sweet-like. Sandor's jaw twitched. His nostrils flared. He dragged in her no-good peachy scent, then forced it back onto her naughty face. 

"Little bird," he growled, a warning. At last she turned on her heels, but Sandor caught her elbow and pulled her into him. He swiped three fingers in the mashed potatoes and smeared them from her forehead down to her chin. 

"No fair," she whined. She squirmed in his grip and clawed the air, frowning through the frosty coat on her pink lips. "You better clean up." 

Fine. Sandor stooped and opened wide. His mouth took up a good third of her face. He only needed a couple laps to clear up the mess, but he let his tongue roam over her cheeks and mouth and nose. She squealed and batted his chest when he jammed the tip of his tongue up one of her little nostrils. She squealed even worse when he latched onto her whole nose and sucked the air clean from her lungs. Now Sandor had really done it, getting himself riled up before dinner. He was remembering the way she had flopped around on his bed beneath him. Or how she ran away earlier that afternoon, let herself be chased. 

Sandor put his next exhale up her nose. He relaxed his grip on her arm, but picked up her face instead. He kissed the girl with a lot of tongue. She stood on tiptoes and grabbed his shoulders so he could scavenge deeper in her mouth. He picked up little bits of potato and dough she had stolen while they cooked. He swallowed down every drop of spit as soon as it surfaced, a juicy peach treat. His cock was hard again, but he was used to that. It was like he was sixteen all over. 

Before he knew, he had the girl at the waist. She held his neck, and he hoisted her up without breaking their kiss. Her legs wrapped around his torso. She put a hand on his bad cheek, as she had taken to doing. But her fingers didn't idle. Their icy tips traced his scorched cracks and ridges. It was like a magic spell. What Sandor wanted to do was carry his prize to bed—his omega, his catch, his dinner. But his legs didn't budge. He rooted down like a ponderosa, and let the snow fall. 

He even pulled back his tongue a little. He wanted to see what the girl would do. Her tongue was a small thing, like a kitten's, but much softer. She licked inside his mouth and along his teeth. She withdrew to run her tongue on his lips, from smooth skin to rough. When her lips landed on Sandor's scars, his heart turned to white iron and seared a hole through his guts. 

_Little bird_ , he wanted to say, but his lungs had either singed crisp or frozen over. She had started to peck along his jaw. "I'm sorry about Gregor," she said in between kisses. "I'm sorry your face is ruined. I still like it, even though it's scary sometimes. In the sunlight it's pretty like a gemstone. I really like gems. I have earrings with rubies back home. You look like a ruby."

Sandor's legs thawed, but only enough to buckle. He staggered back a step and his spine hit the softwood wall. He slid down, cradling his omega tight in his arms. He was never going to let her go, he decided. His vision had gone pure white. His chest was hollow, or full, permeated by one weightless pitch. 

He had died, maybe. He was in heaven. 

Odd, because Seven knew he had sinned. He was sinning right now, even. Bedding down with the ripest peach in the all the realm. Of course, heaven was nothing but ripe peaches. Heaven was a late summer orchard, fruit bent low to fertile earth, bestowing its pit, willingly. 

"Sandor," came the voice of an angel—no, the Maiden. She was in his lap, the very picture of beauty, with flames in her hair and blue pools for eyes. Her skin was made of snow. It prickled on his cheeks. She was shaking him. "You fell, sweet scary dog." 

Sandor's lips pulled to a slow smile. "You're so pretty, little maiden." 

The girl blushed rose-red. She shifted on his lap and Gods, she was just as heated as him. "It's dinnertime," she said. "I need to get ready. You should change too. Your shirt is a mess." 

He had no choice, then. Sansa pulled him upright, falling back with all her weight. She kissed his belly, right on one of her dusty handprints, then disappeared down the hall. 

Sandor's heart raced the same as it did on the eve of battle. His limbs were made of lead. His blood was pure steam. He half-floated, half-lugged himself to his room. He gave himself one command at a time. First, strip. That was easy. But Gods, his cock was stiff. He needed to get that down, so he could have a proper meal with his lady bird. So he stroked like a mad dog, one hand on a bedpost to keep himself upright. He shot a huge load in his pot, and groaned louder than he would have liked. That was that. 

He put on his old uniform trousers, grey wool with a hole in the knee. The waistband was snug; his gut had puffed out a bit since the war. He put on the matching white button-up, but to all Seven Hells with the coat. He wasn't a sore loser—fuck the southern masters and their _state's rights_. He put on his nicest vest instead, black spotted cow skin. He fixed his collar with his turquoise and silver bolo, then dragged his fingers through his hair to put it in its proper place. Hat on, and he was ready. But before he left his room, he flicked open his pocket knife. Tried to figure out his reflection. _Like a ruby_. 

He caught himself grinning and put the blade away right quick. 

Of course, his pretty little bird would need a lot more time to sort herself out. That gave Sandor a chance to tidy the cabin up some. He set the dumplings to boil, scrubbed down the table, and pulled Grandma Clegane's blue rose tablecloth from the cupboard. When that was smoothed and straightened, Sandor fetched a couple of candlesticks and lit them. He put out his nicest ceramic plates, painted to match the cloth, and his best silverware. Ma would have been proud. 

But he almost forgot the best treat of all: wine. They grew grapes on the Western coast, brought nice vintages out to Hornvale. Sandor had two wine glasses, chipped, but serviceable. He popped the cork on a bottle of red and dosed it out. He fetched the dumplings, piping hot, and arranged them back on the platter. He put out some bread and jam and butter. He sat down at his fully set table. He adjusted his hat and tie. He tapped his boot, nursed his wine, glanced down the hall every five seconds. 

Finally, she emerged. 

Sansa was a goddamn vision, that's what. She wore her green satin gown, with freshly brushed hair that flowed to her slender waist. She had woven two pretty plaits by her temples and tied them back with a bow. She shone like the sun. Her smile was white starlight. 

Sandor shot up to get her chair. "Thank you kindly," she said as she took her seat. Sandor fell in across from her. His face had gotten hot—all the dinner preparations had sweat slick on his forehead and trickling to his jaw. He dabbed at it with his napkin, but the flush stayed, throbbing. 

"You look beautiful," he got out, then promptly took a swig of wine. 

"Well you look very handsome," Sansa replied. "Though your trousers need mending. I can help with that tomorrow." She picked up her own glass and took the tiniest sip. Her nose scrunched. "So sour. I like the white kind better, the kind with bubbles." Still, she stole another, bigger sip. She smiled. "Nevermind. I like it. It's very warm." 

Sandor smiled back, then realized—he needed to serve his little omega. He dished out a few dumplings for her, and a slice of bread slathered in jam. "Thank you," she hummed. "This is perfect." 

Sandor went to town on a whole heap of dumplings while Sansa pecked at hers. She was too busy chirping to eat. "I had such fun today, truly," she told him. "I _loved_ breakfast. You were a wonderful guest. You can come back to my nest whenever you like, as long as you ask permission first." She polished off her wine, then made eyes at Sandor. He pushed down a painful lump of potato and poured her a full-up glass. She sipped and went on, "Our ride together was the best part, don't you think?" Sandor nodded; his mouth was full again. "You make a very nice mount, I must say. Better than wood. You certainly taste better. Did you like that part, when I used my mouth?" 

Sandor's cock perked up and pulsed. He bit down a growl. "I liked it a lot, little bird." 

"I thought so," she replied. 

Her cheeks were full red apples now. She glowed by the candlelight. Its softness turned her even softer, like a doll in a dreamworld. Sandor might have been seeing things. He downed his wine, and reached in the cupboard for the next bottle. Served himself up to the brim, tossed his glass back, then served himself again. Better, maybe. His collar was tight and itchy. His pants were tighter, and too damn warm. His napkin was dark with sweat. 

"I have a present for you," Sansa said. She got up and scurried to her room. She came back with a little folded up cloth—her sewing project. _A secret surprise_ , she had called it. When she resettled in her chair, she presented it, unfurling the cloth and holding it up at the corners. 

Sandor's face burned. _Home Sweet Home_ , it read, in neat black cross-stitching. On one side, there was the silhouette of a dog's head, on the other side, a little bird. 

"Do you like it?" she asked.

Sandor nodded. He forwent manners and mopped his brow with his sleeve. His eyes were stinging. His scars too. It was the salt in his sweat, dribbling down from his lashes. "Take it," she said. Sandor stuck out a palm, and she draped her stitching over it. "You're the dog. I'm the bird. This is my home too now, because you said you're going to keep me forever." 

Water came down Sandor's cheeks too fast to catch. He groped for his glass and chugged. The bird was looking at him, goddamn staring, plunging him into sapphire abyss. She had the longest lashes. They were fluttering real pretty like. Her peachy lips were puckered to a pout. 

"Well?" she asked, blinking especially hard. "When are we going to get married?" 

Sandor breathed in his mouthful of wine. It ripped through his lungs and scalded like he'd taken a second dip in the hearth. He coughed dark red into the white cotton at his elbow, and put down more wine to fight the fire with fire. Eventually he worked up the nerve to look at his bird again. "As soon as you like," he answered, throat raw and tight.

Sansa pried his hand from his glass, and used both of hers to bring it to her lips. She kissed the back of his palm a dozen times, smiling wide. "Good," she said. "I never wanted to marry Harry Hardyng. He smelled _awful_. Father said we could marry—I asked him for you, in a prayer. We’ll go to the sept when my lady’s tide is through and invite all your friends. And _then—_ ” Sansa took in a gasping breath, and exhaled, “Then I'll bite you. And then we can breed.” 

Now Sandor was certain he was in the hearth. His scars ached from the damn sweat. His skin flared hot enough to melt a glacier. There was smoke, a beautiful, horrible peach smog that clogged up his lungs and choked. He was losing, bad. He needed air. He stood so quickly his chair smacked against the wall. His little bird peeped in surprise. 

"Hammer," he grunted. "I'll hang it." 

He tucked his present in his back pocket and tore from the cabin. Night air didn't soothe. He made it to the barn, to his tool bench, and doubled over. He retched—his heart was gonna come up, or his lungs. Something had to go, there was too much pounding, too much blood and guts and heat roiling beneath his skin. Nothing came. Vision blurry, he fumbled around for his hammer and a handful of nails. He didn't like being apart from his bird. He stormed back to the cabin and nearly smashed the front door down. 

He went to the hearth. Near blind, with shaky hands, he lifted the pretty cloth scrap above the mantle and pounded in four nails, one for each corner. _Home Sweet Home_. The hammer slipped from his sweat-slick grip and clattered to the floor. His gut seized up again. Sandor expected vomit, but out came a wet roar. He caught the next one in his forearm, hunched over the mantle. A tiny hand tugged at his vest from behind, and along with it came the softest little voice. 

"Sandor, sweet dog, what’s the matter? Hey, it's alright. Don't cry." 

Sandor straightened up; he wanted to see his bird real bad. She was a reddish white worried blur at his side. Her hands slid up his chest and clamped down on his collar. "Come here," she said. "Come down." 

Sandor dropped to his knees. Sansa hovered like a cloud above, a little dream. He curled his arms around her slight waist and stuck his face the soft swell of her chest. His hat pushed up, but the girl lifted it the rest of the way off. Two small hands landed in his hair and gently smoothed it down. Sandor inhaled, and icebox peach flooded him to the bone. 

"I want a family," he whispered. 

"I do too," Sansa replied. A sweet kiss fell atop his head. "We're going to make one." 

"Do you promise?" 

"I promise." 

"Sansa?" 

"What is it?" 

"Will you come to bed with me?" 

The bird cupped Sandor’s cheeks and tilted his face upward. The fire was gone from his skin. She had drawn it out. She was fire and ice at once, a hearth and a cure, a miracle. She kissed Sandor’s forehead and replied, “Of course I will. I’d be delighted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dessert coming next week 🍑💦


	14. Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor eats his little bird for dessert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! 🤠
> 
> Welcome to part two of our meal: dessert. Nothing but sugary sweet smut. I would recommend savoring it while it lasts. I've drafted up to Chapter 16 now, and, well, drama is forthcoming. It was inevitable, sigh. 
> 
> Enjoy 💘

**Sandor**

Sandor closed Sansa's hand in his and led her to his room. He wished he had more to offer her than his grandfather's weathered four-poster, sparsely covered in a patchy yellow quilt. At least it was Clegane big, alpha-sized. A brass lamp flickered on the bedside table. Blue moonlight poured in from the window. Sansa lit up the rest. 

Sandor turned to face her at the foot of the bed. His sweat had dried some but his breath was shallow as sin. He focused real hard on it, sneaking sips of peachy air. He mostly got his own deep musk. He breathed it in slowly. He pet his sweet bird. He had wanted his hands in her hair all night, so he started there. His fingers slipped easily through her fiery curls down to their ends. He twirled a lock around his finger— _like silk_ , he thought. He hadn't touched much silk. 

"Do you like it?" the little bird asked. Sandor nodded. 

"It's like soft firelight," he said. 

He put a hand on the girl's cheek to feel if she was blushing—she was. She smiled then, and Sandor pushed his thumb between her parted lips. She liked his thumb. She had kissed him there first. Sandor wondered what he tasted like, what her little tongue lapped from his rough skin and knuckle and nailbed. When he decided she'd had enough, he pulled out, and ran his thumb down the slope of her nose. He left behind a thin trail of spit that glistened bright. 

Sansa looked down to her boots and tapped her toes together. "Do you—do you want to put your branch in me?" she asked. She peeked back up below full lashes. 

“I do,” Sandor got out. _Dogs don’t lie_. “But not tonight.” 

"Oh good," the little bird puffed. "Let's wait until we're married." 

Sandor half-grunted in reply. The hand that had been in her hair found its way to her waist. He set his palm there and stroked along its slight curve. Her bodice pressed her tits to near flatness, a damn shame. Sandor swallowed a hefty dose of peach. "Can I see you?" he asked. 

"Naked?" 

"Naked." 

The bird nodded. "Help me undress, please." 

Sandor knelt for her boots first. He unlaced them and pulled them off, one at a time. Her hose followed. When he stood back up, Sansa stretched her little wings out to her side. Sandor's fingers fumbled with the front closures of her bodice, flimsy hooks that begged to be bent. But he freed each one, until the bodice parted, and he shrugged it down the girl's shoulders. He draped it gently over the footboard. She turned so he could unclasp her skirt. He shimmied it down her hips, and piled it atop her bodice. 

That left her in a sheer underdress. It was almost enough for him. Moonlight fell through the cotton to paint her delicate silhouette. Her nipples made two little peaks. Sandor's cock climbed down his leg, claiming what scant space there was between his seams. "So pretty," he said, and he lifted her hem up and over her head. He was careful with her looped plaits. When the underdress was set aside, he arranged her curls down her back and straightened her pretty bow. He took a step closer, putting his boots beside her bare toes. 

"How do I look?" the bird said, watching her feet. 

"Lovely," Sandor breathed down on her. 

Her tits budded from her chest, two halved peaches. Below, her little belly, full of wine and dumplings, swelled to a gentle mound. Sandor put his hands there. He cupped her belly in full and pictured it bigger, because he could. How many pups could fit? He guessed three, three to start. Then he'd have more than a handful. His cock throbbed its accord. His unspent seed hung heavy, biding its time.

Sandor's hands slid up to cup her breasts. He didn't squeeze, didn't pluck, he held. They filled his hands too. 

They'd grow like her belly. 

Sandor's gut rumbled, and his fingers clenched up, digging deep in pliant flesh. The girl whimpered. "Be so gentle," she said. Sandor relaxed a bit, but he liked the give of her tits. His muscles were hard and corded, rigid to the touch. She felt like the softest frosted cake. The kind they put in display cases, the kind Sandor always had a fleeting urge to stuff his fingers in and squish to a pulp. Sansa was a pretty cake. She was his sweet girl, made of sugar and syrup and spring honey from fresh blossoms. 

Of course, Sandor didn't have coin for fancy cakes. But he had her in his hands—she wasn't behind glass, she didn't cost a dozen dragons. So he squeezed, and her pulp seeped between his fingers. She whimpered, clutched his wrists, and asked in a whisper, "Do you like them?" 

Sandor pushed a growl through his nose. He thumbed her pert nipples, like little raspberries on whipped meringue. "I love them, sweet girl," he said. "I'd eat them clean off you, if I could. But I won't. I'll be good." 

The girl looked up. "You can have a taste, if you like." 

Sandor fell to his knees. In one thundering heartbeat, his mouth latched onto a sweet swell, and he sucked it plumb in. It was juicy as her cheeks, but bigger, fluffier. His tongue went wild, swirling around that rosy raspberry, flicking it, nibbling it, _just a taste_. He used his arms to trap the girl close. She was getting a little floppy on him, a wilting sugar crystal. 

Sandor would have her down to syrup. He wanted her puddled in his floorboards, soaked into his sheets, collecting ants and gnats and bees. He gave her other tit attention too. He bit this nipple harder to feel pimpled flesh part under stiff enamel. Her knees buckled at that; Sandor held her entire weight against his gaping mouth. Her peach stuffed it full. Creamy flesh spilled from the corners of his lips, threatened to rip his tattered cheek anew. Two little paws groped at his hair. 

"Sandor," his bird whined, "Sandor, please. You're hurting." 

Her grip was weak but Sandor let her pull his head away. He cradled her with one arm beneath her buttocks, the other set behind her waist and braced along her spine. He looked up at her. Her big eyes shone and danced with water. Sandor liked that. He did that. He picked her up and set her gently at the foot of the bed. He went up too, sinking a knee on either side of her hips. 

She inched backwards. 

He advanced. 

Like a timid rabbit, she backed herself into the headboard, and cowered low in the pillows. Sandor loomed tall. His hair hung down to meet Sansa’s cheeks. He stuck two fingers in her mouth and dragged down her jaw. Her eyes got wider. His mouth overflowed. A slug of slobber dropped from half-burnt lips. It landed in her mouth and dribbled down her chin. She gurgled and tore at Sandor’s hair, but only tugged him closer, until his lips hovered above hers. 

He grinned, wet. 

"I'll have my taste now." 

The first thing he sampled was one of her scared peeps. His open lips mashed against hers; his tongue lolled. He dragged it over her scrunched up nose and eyes. He licked her temple and around to her ear. He took the whole thing in his mouth, plunged his tongue into its small center. The little bird clutched his hair as he worked. His arms curled tight around her head. He gave her other ear the same treatment, and when he finished, he came back to her mouth. 

Here, his nostrils flared. The scent he drew in was his own. He gathered a lungful, and heaved it between the girl's quivering lips. 

"I'm yours," she whispered. 

Smart bird. 

So Sandor was in the bakery—no, he had brought his cake home. The bed was the table, and to hell with forks and knives. He had his hands. And better, his mouth. It was him and his priceless pastry, all to himself. 

He could do whatever he liked. 

He had savored her little face, so he slid down to her neck. No biting, of course. His bird would have the first bite, when she was ready, after the wedding and whatnot. Little ladies needed their ceremonies and finery. Still, Sandor dragged the full length of his tongue from collarbone to jaw, working up and down, side to side, until he licked every bit of exposed sugar-white skin. Goddamn delicious. Her pulse pounded against his tongue and reverberated in his ribs. Tart fear bit at his taste buds; sweetness lingered. He knew the perfect mouthful of peach waited for him below. And oh, he would be waiting. 

Next he had his second go with those fluffy raspberry-tipped meringues. He used his mouth on one and his hand on the other. The bird mewled and arched up, pushed her knees into his belly, but she had nowhere to go but deeper into the sheets. So Sandor went on, part-gnawing, part mashing his tongue against her hardened nipples. He was hoping by miracle he’d get some milk out of her. _Later_ , he thought, _later. Savor her._

He licked his way to her belly. He hadn’t kissed her here before, not while she was awake, not unclothed. First he put his ear to it, his burnt one. He heard her little guts bubbling about. Turning wine into piss, dumplings into shit. And soon, soon, she’d turn seed to sprout. That was when Sandor decided to take his cock out. He was stiff as ore; he beat himself slowly. He swept his tongue over the girl’s rounded belly. He thought of three pups again—pretty red birds with clear blue eyes. He’d sing to them as they bloomed, kiss them, pet them, tell them whatever stories they’d like. “Our pups will grow there,” the bird whispered down. Sandor pressed a smile against her skin—she was thinking the same as him. 

And of course, good little birds got treats. They _were_ treats. Sandor wanted her sweetest part, her cherry cordial center. He straightened up onto his knees, trenched in the mattress, with her long legs trapped between. He put his palms on her thighs, buried his fingers in them until milk-white flesh pouched out. His thumbs nestled just below her maidenhair. 

He felt her heat. His cocked bobbed at his beltline; the bird’s eyes were there. 

“I want to see you,” he said. Sansa looked up. “It’s fair.” 

She pulled in her lower lip, searching him. “Be good,” she said. 

And with a grunted promise, Sandor's thumbs dug deep. He parted her silky thighs like soft buttercream. 

Here was a pretty peach: rose pink and juicy. Dew shimmered on delicate petals. They furled around a puffy bud and a glossy center. It was the smallest flower he'd seen, bound tight, yet swollen, slick, and alive. Sandor watched her hollow contract and release. Her hunger was his own. Spit pooled in his mouth and seeped from the gaps in his cheek. He shouldered it away and sucked his teeth. 

"Oh, sweet little bird," he growled, his first prayer in decades. The girl made a peep. She trembled like an autumn leaf. "So this is what's hurting you." He spread her petals with his thumbs, making threads of dew stretch and droop. "I can tell, sweet girl. I've never seen a cunt swelled up so bad as this. You're soaked. You're flooded. You've made a mess of all your gowns and bedding. _She_ has. Your little flower." 

The bird made the prettiest noise then, a weak, sing-song warble. Her thighs seized up against Sandor's palms, but he kept them pressed to the quilt. He stuck his knees beneath her bent legs, let his hard cock hover a mere inch from her maidenhair. "And now, you'll make a mess of _my_ bed, _my_ pretty quilt. Naughty, naughty bird. I think you need my help." 

Sansa watched him with eyes like the moon. A starling tear slid down her cheek. "Yes, please." 

"Please _what_?" Sandor snarled. 

"H-hands," she stuttered, her little chin wobbling. "Please, ser. I would love it ever so much if you touched me. If you—" she lowered her voice to whisper "—if you tasted me." 

"Is that so?" 

The little bird nodded. Sandor swiped a finger along her dripping entrance, collecting dew. He held it in the lamplight, rubbed it between forefinger and thumb, pulled strings of it, sniffed it, then lapped it clean. He exhaled candied fruit. "So sweet," he said. "And so ripe. I think I'll have a bite." 

Sandor shifted back on the bed, nudged the girl's slender legs up onto his shoulders. He pressed a palm to her belly, and took his cock in the other. His nose nuzzled into her soft maidenhair. He spent some time there, breathing, filling his lungs with sweet fire. It must have tickled the girl, or driven her wild. Her paws had returned to his hair. She was a little cowgirl—she needed reins. She held two fistfuls of him as his nose rooted down, dragged in a sugary smog. He opened his mouth to feel her steam. It was like the aftermath of a southern summer storm, when lush air swam above the earth's green surface. He breathed steam right back at her, and oh, she writhed. She needed more than hot air on her achy bud. 

But she was _his_ dessert, to play with as he pleased. Sandor stroked his cock. He put out little puffs on her reddened skin, and watched from below as she rolled her spine and bucked her hips. When Sandor laughed at her plight, she whimpered, "Please. Pretty, pretty please. Eat me." 

And of course, Sandor had promised he would be good. 

His lips descended, agape. His tongue dipped into her dew. Fuck manners—Sandor slurped. He learned her soft folds, the lines of her petals. He gathered juice from slick skin and gulped it down. He traced around her bud. He spread his tongue over it. His lips latched on. 

His bird sang. 

Sandor liked music. He really, really did. He liked her music especially. 

So he made more of it. Gods, he sucked that bud like a pup on the teat. It was on fire, truly. It pounded like a tiny heart and danced against his teeth. Yes, he teased her with his teeth. He wanted sound. He bit, and licked, and sucked like he intended to swallow. 

And all the while, he stroked. His pulse raged with her. He had to go slow, though. His cock thrashed in his fist like a dying beast. It sought warm shelter. It begged for release. Each throb of the girl's bud echoed tenfold in his blood. But his cock, his _branch_ , wouldn't bed in her hollow, not tonight. He closest he'd come: his tongue. 

He lowered his face. He stuck his nose on her bud and rested his mouth over her center. He could drown here. He could die happy, awash in an omega's tide. He decided to drink instead. His tongue circled her sodden entrance. The girl gave him noises, and she yanked his hair extra tight. Sandor liked the pain. It was white-hot, near ice on his scalp. It was his treat. He caught every string of dew as it dropped from inside her. His tongue swirled deeper. He put himself a few inches up her guts. Wet walls collapsed on him. They lured him in with an agonizing promise: there was home at the end. A den of flesh for his pups, her womb. Sandor plunged deep as if his tongue could reach it, as if he could taste the refuge in his bird's belly. His blood had its own song: _you've already arrived_.

And the girl harmonized. "Good dog," she cooed. Her fingers lay flush against his scalp now. A cool palm rested on his scars. "You're helping. You're helping. I'm—I'm—" 

Oh, she was going to blow. Her center churned up Sandor's tongue like a whirlpool. Her bud was a fiery coal beneath his nose. He felt her pulse as his own. His body was thunder. He was the storm. He rained down on her sea, thrust his face in her sweet, dark depths. His lungs burned as her water became his very breath. It shot up through his nose, gushed into his mouth, and packed his throat full. His gut gorged. 

Sandor knew the girl's next moan, and his name came with it. Her hips pushed up as her hands fell slack. Her flower fluttered, pitching a river of dew. Sandor looked up to see her brows stitched together, her pink lips parted just-so. He felt his own climax rise like high tide. It rippled in his veins, and ached in his bollocks. But he stayed his seed, perched on a perilous crest. 

He didn’t want to put his pups in open air. He wanted that pretty mouth. 

In a single heartbeat, he flattened his bird down. He mounted her chest, grabbed a fistful of red hair, and erupted at her lips. His cock forced them wide as his bollocks wrang and drained onto her tongue. His seed shot straight to her guts. Her eyes were watery ponds, shining blue. Sandor brushed away a tear as he groaned and bucked against her skull.

Her throat contracted, then relaxed. A perfect vessel for his load. 

"Good little bird," Sandor soothed. "Look how pretty you are with my cock in your mouth, drinking my seed." 

She whimpered against his tender flesh. He softened enough to slip out from her, glistening. He fell on her. She needed kisses. "You taste so sweet, little peach," he told her, pecking her nose and lips and cheeks. He scooped her in his arms, and flipped her, so she lay on his chest. He kissed the top of her head, and smoothed her curls down her back. "You have the prettiest little cunt, did you know that? I've never seen one better. Never had one sweeter, or pinker, or juicier. It's my favorite flower I ever did taste." 

"Do you eat a lot of flowers?" Sansa asked. 

"I have," Sandor softly said. The girl peeped, so he picked up her chin. "What is it?" he asked. 

He felt a blush rise up on her face. "You did very well," she said. "Thank you." 

Sandor slept with his bird in his arms. It was peaceful in her peach-scented cloud, until the fire came. He was back at Blackwater, blinded by flame, drowning in smoke. Enemies approached; he felt their shadow like a line of black crows descending. But he had no rifle, no sword at his hip, not even a pocket knife. Fists up, and the shadows merged to one dark mountain. 

"Little brother," boomed the shadow. When Sandor looked to his hands, he had but a wooden soldier for his defense—his ruin. A fist like a boulder clamped down his throat and hoisted him into the acrid air. "Let's play, little brother." 

Terrified, Sandor screamed. 

_Not the hearth, big brother, please._

He thrashed and thrashed, but it was too late, the world was ablaze. _Not the hearth, not the hearth_ , and his skin bubbled, and his lungs crusted black. He was as good as ash. But then there was a light, a little star in the distance, and a cold spring feeling. "I'm here, sweet dog. I'm right here." Ice kissed him. "I'll sing for you, here." And there was a song, an old, familiar song in a starbright voice. 

_Away in the north woods an army stands tall,  
_ _Strong as a mountain, his face they did conquer,  
_ _He sinks into earth, they reach for the sky,  
_ _No shame in burning,  
_ _Black branches, black trunks, white hearts,  
_ _Black pines,  
_ _Black pines._

It was Ma—she was here, singing him to sleep as she did all those long, horrid nights. Slowly, Sandor opened his eyes. But it was the Maiden before him, burning bright. "You were scared," she whispered. Her hand rested on his bad cheek like a frost. She swept away a tear before it stung. "I sang you a song." 

Sandor's heart seized. He threw his face in her bare chest and pulled in a tattered breath. 

"I know that song," he said to her skin. "It's my favorite." 

"Would you like to hear it again?" 

"Yes, please." 

And so the little bird sang him into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Up next, the beginning of the end. 
> 
> 'Til then.


	15. Dirtbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor go on a picnic; life is grand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy 🤠
> 
> Here she is, the beginning of the end. After some reflection, I realized this chapter might be a little confusing. If you'd like some clarity, I've added some into the comments. Hopefully that'll give you extra insight as we head into serious carnal delirium. 
> 
> Wholeheartedly, I hope y'all enjoy 🔥🍑

Sansa woke, pressed tightly to Sandor's chest. Could he squeeze her any harder with those big arms of his? Her lips were smashed against his shirt in an uncomely puddle of drool. Her mouth tasted like pine sap, dry. 

Tired of looking at her mess, Sansa unbuttoned Sandor's shirt. She released his powerful, hairy chest. He had more breast than her! Sansa began to kiss, just as Sandor had done to her last night. Of course, her bud responded in kind. She was flushed as ever in this hot pine den. And as she kissed, Sandor roused too. His branch, still free from his trousers, turned stiff between their bellies. His breath grew heavier atop Sansa's head. 

She gave his branch a hand. She was really quite good at touching him there; he had told her himself. He more than filled out her fist, and his pulse was much stronger than her fingers, but she stroked him as he liked best. "Good bird," he breathed, easing his hips into her grip. His hands were buried in her hair, close to her scalp, but he pulled one away. It wandered across Sansa's waist and hips, then snuck between her thighs. "I'll help," he said. 

His thumb circled her bud; two fingers teased her entrance. "Good dog," Sansa told him. She liked this arrangement very much, and at her nice words, Sandor's fingers sunk inside her. Sansa rested her forehead on his bare chest. She took in wispy breaths of alpha stench, and tried to keep up her strokes, but Sandor had already found her favorite spot. He had teased her about her dew, but oh, she couldn't help it! Not when he nibbled at her or licked or put those terribly thick fingers inside her. Maybe it was her flower's fault, but she'd rather blame him. 

With his next forceful press, her bud flared, ready to fully ignite. "Oh no," Sansa whispered. 

"The little bird is going to come so soon," Sandor growled. Could he feel her heat too? "She can't get enough of my hand, the poor little pet. I understand. You can let go." 

Sansa did. Her center clenched around Sandor's fingers, and her bud pounded along. "Oh Sandor," she called. In her bliss, her hand clamped down on Sandor's branch. His pulse matched and exceeded hers, throbbing like thunder. "Fucking hells," he swore, and his seed burst. Sansa watched it spray the bedding and dribble down his tip, too sated to move. When Sandor's cock was done dancing in her hand, she looked up at him expectantly. His nose wrinkled the way it did when he wanted to be angry. Without a word, he slid down the bed, and began to lap up his mess. Sansa pet his hair while he cleaned. "I liked that time a lot," she said. "It's nice to touch each other together." 

Sandor grunted with his mouth on the quilt. When he finished, he stayed by Sansa's chest, and put a few kisses on her breasts. He must have noticed the red teeth marks he had left last night, when he simply devoured them. What Sansa noticed was the grease in his hair. It was clumpy and congealed in sticky strands. 

"When's your bath?" Sansa asked. 

Sandor peeked up at her, eyes narrowed. "You think I'm stinky, is it?" 

"Well, you're always stinky. But now you're dirty, too." 

"I would have gone to the creek," Sandor said. "But as it happens, I'm in charge of a stinky bird." 

Sansa stuck out her tongue—bad move. Sandor stuck out his, and he pounced. Like an excited pup, he licked her tender breasts and nipples, up to her neck, then to her mouth. "How would you like a picnic, little bird?" 

"A picnic?" Sansa gasped. "You mean it?" 

Sandor nodded, and Sansa kissed him full on the mouth, with tongue. He tasted like his own seed and her flower's dew from last night—a perfect mix. "I would love that," Sansa said. 

The preparations were underway immediately. Picnics were an important affair, casual as they were. It had been two years since Sansa's last picnic—Stepfather abhorred them. He would never take her out of the city, as Father had. Of course, Sansa was still tide-stricken. Her blood was too fevered for her to do much but lounge about and pet herself, though that had proved to be a rather delightful pastime.

So while Sandor gathered supplies, Sansa prepared herself in her nest. He had returned her drawers, folded neatly atop her trunk. But she would soil them immediately, so she went without. She put on her puff-sleeved chemise and a seafoam green dress from Mrs. Lydden. This one was for younger girls, the bodice cut low and tight on a grown lady's breasts. Sansa tied the ribbon sash just below—it gave her even more lift. Sandor would like that. And secretly, Sansa liked how his teeth marks sat exposed. She would have pinned her hair in a woven crown for a picnic, but without hairpins, she made do with two milkmaid's plaits, looped and tied with bows behind her ears. 

She hadn't found a looking glass in Sandor's cabin. She'd need to ask after that. 

Sansa took her tin of shortbread and surfaced from her nest. "I brought something for us to eat," she told Sandor, who waited for her at the table. He smiled. "Perfect, sweet girl." 

He helped her put on her hose and boots, and they were off, sharing the saddle. 

Sansa remembered to stay awake this time. Soon, hopefully within the next week, this land would be hers too. "What's your family name?" she asked. 

"Clegane," Sandor replied. 

"Sansa Clegane," she whispered. "Does that sound pretty?" 

"Very pretty." 

So Sansa Clegane watched as rolling meadows passed, set in the shadow of jagged mountain giants. They rode along a thin rocky trail that threaded through yellow-grassed hills and scattered pines. Sansa might have dozed a little bit, but she woke at the sound of rushing water—the creek. "Oh my," she breathed. It was gorgeous, a white ribbon bounding down over rocks and winding through the woods on either side. "We'll climb up some," Sandor said. "Find calmer water. I know the place." 

He knew a magical place. Stranger scrambled up the creekside for a good long while, but finally crested the treeline to perfection, heaven on earth. They were in a high-up grassy clearing, bordered on the far side by a waterfall as tall as a tower. It flowed into a clear pond that snaked to a stream past Stranger's hooves, and down the hill below. Above them was nothing but open sapphire sky. 

Sandor set the picnic in a soft bed of grass by the pond. He laid a quilt, then arranged bread, cheese, dried fruit, jam, and of course, shortbread. He didn't have tea, but he brought a canister of milk and a bottle of brown ale. Cross-legged, Sandor took up most of their shared territory. Sansa knelt by his side. 

"I'll take care of you," she said. 

So she sliced bits of bread and cheese with Sandor's pocket knife, and dutifully stuffed them in his mouth. She nibbled at her shortbread cookies then gave him the ends. She even tried tipping in some ale, though it spurted from his scarred cheek and he cursed as it splattered his shirt. Sansa giggled—he was funny when he was cross like that—then helped him dab it with his kerchief. She let him serve her milk, but when her mouth filled up, he wouldn't stop pouring. He didn't stop until she gasped for breath and shot milk from her nose instead. 

"Sandor," she choked out, chin dripping. 

He grinned wide. "I'll clean up." 

He just wanted to kiss her! He bent over, setting his hands at her sides, and ran his coarse lips over her face. He sucked her nose, again, and put his tongue in her nostrils, _again_. Was that how betrothed couples were supposed to kiss? He licked her until she lay flat on the quilt, then dropped to her side. Sansa nestled into his smelly armpit. She watched the blue sky above as Sandor gently traced her plaits. 

"This is where Maggie drowned," he said.

Sansa's heart fell. "That's so sad. Why do you come here then?" 

"It was our place, that's why. We used to come every week. She liked it here." 

"Oh." 

Sandor let out a ragged sigh. "I wasn't there when it happened. Gregor brought her up. You're not supposed to stay in the water for long—it's too cold. She was small. And he left her." 

"That's awful," Sansa said. 

"I know," Sandor replied. 

Sansa burrowed deeper into his side and kissed his armpit, even though it reeked. She stretched an arm across his ribs and held tight. "I saw my aunt die." 

"Little bird," Sandor breathed. 

"Stepfather pushed her in front of a train because he didn't love her. He blamed it on a man playing mouthpipe. He was dumb, I think. The police took him away. I'm not supposed to tell." 

A finger lifted Sansa's chin. She met Sandor's worried eyes. "You can tell me, Sansa." 

"Well, Stepfather married Aunt Lysa, but he only ever loved Mother. That's what he said when he pushed her. I look like Mother, so he loved me too. Not like a lover. But he saw me naked and kissed me sometimes. He said it was like a father would, but Father never did that." 

Sandor brushed a tear from Sansa's lashes. She hadn't realized she was crying. She didn't know where the words had even come from, let alone the nerve to say them out loud. She had promised Stepfather she would stay quiet, and she was loath to break a promise, even hundreds of miles from home. 

"Am I bad?" Sansa asked. 

"No," Sandor said, curt. "Your stepfather is bad."

"Will you give me back to him, if he—if he—" Sansa's thought ended with a sob. Sandor clasped her cheek and stroked it swiftly with his thumb. 

"Sansa," he said in a stern growl. "If that cunt puts a single toe on my property, I promise you, it will be the last thing he ever does." 

"Dogs don't lie," Sansa whispered. 

"Dogs don't lie," Sandor replied. He pulled Sansa into his chest and showered her head with kisses. "I'm never letting you go, little bird. You landed in my barn, so you're mine. I'm going to keep you forever. You have my word." 

Sandor held her for a while, to prove his promise true. If they were to be married, if he was going to claim her, well, his promises certainly meant the most. And if he was her alpha, he got to know everything about her. Sansa decided that was the rule. So she rested in a dense fog of pine until the telltale flush of heat crept between her legs and onto her cheeks. She suddenly remembered: bathtime meant she would see Sandor naked. 

Sansa shifted up to sitting. "It's bathtime for smelly alphas," she said, sticking her finger to the tip of his nose. He nipped at it, then rose to his feet. He wasn't shy. He had his shirt off in one tug, his boots in two, and then finally, his pants. 

Sansa craned her neck, bewildered. 

He was bigger than the mountains at his back. He was a giant made of swollen muscles and thick dark fur. The size of his branch really made sense. It was hiding in its sheath, except for the bright red tip. And the heaviness that hung below—simply _massive._ Full of Sansa Clegane's pups! She whimpered and stuck a hand between her thighs to calm her bud. Sandor grinned. 

"Am I pretty?" he asked down to her. 

Sansa blushed. "You're more than pretty. You're—you're _breathtaking_." 

He barked a laugh, kissed Sansa's head, and set off to the pond. 

Sansa wished she had brought her branch. Sandor put on the most wonderful show. He was her alpha, her future husband, the biggest, scariest, handsomest man in all the realm. He dove into the pond headfirst, and swam about, sunlight glistening on his body's sharp contours. He pushed all his hair to the right and gently splashed his scars clean. He ran his hands over his other choice cuts: those burly arms, his puffy chest, and of course, his cock. Sansa couldn't see him scrub it underwater, sadly. But he winked at her as he worked on it, probably to make her jealous. She was. She wouldn't be going anywhere near frigid water. 

After Sandor finished scrubbing, he dunked himself below the surface, and came up at the pond's edge. He hauled himself onto the grass, and asked, "Do you want to see me dive?" 

Sansa gave an eager nod. "Of course, sweetling." 

She expected him to dive back in the pond as he had the first time. But no, he split off towards the rushing waterfall. In nothing but his skin, he scaled the rocky face at its side. The cliff was no match for his muscles. He threw his body from one hold to the next with devastating grace. He never slipped, not even on rocks slick and dark with water. He conquered the mountain and stood at its top, his mighty chest heaving. Sansa's heart fluttered as if she had worked half so hard. She smiled and waved to him from below. 

Sandor cupped his hands to his mouth and boomed, "Watch!" 

He took a running start, then bounded off the cliffside head first, his arms pointed above his head. He landed into the water with an oddly delicate splash, then surfaced from the pond, beaming. 

"Well?" he said, wiping his face and catching his breath. 

"Will you do it again?" Sansa asked. 

"Seven hells, little bird." 

"Pretty please?" she pressed, batting her lashes. 

Sandor groaned, and he was off. This time, he dove _backwards_. That was a delight. He was like a big giant bird, or maybe a dragon, soaring through the sky. He was rather out of breath after that, but Sansa asked very nicely for one more. Sandor obliged. For his last dive he did a spin, _in the air_. So impressive! It set Sansa's blood on fire. She was a puddle on the quilt. Truthfully, she'd had a hand stuck between her legs this entire time. She squished them together and shifted side to side for relief, but she was too hot. Sandor, bare-skinned, was too much for such a delicate lady. And when he burst from the pond, water dripping from his sharp chin and chiseled muscles, she wilted, flat on her back. 

Sandor landed at her feet, blotting out the sunlight with his broad shoulders. 

"How did I do?" he rasped. 

"You—you did very well," Sansa replied, breathless. She was mesmerized by his body, hard as stone, and one part in particular. It was big now, climbing down Sandor's leg. She could think only of being crushed, as she had been in his bed so many times. She was thinking of treefall and dense dark woods, thick sap instead of air. 

Sandor read her mind. He dropped down on her like heavy rain. Black hair curtained and dripped around her face. A crescent smile shone bright. And worst of all, a stout wetness thumped between her cotton-cloaked thighs. 

"You want him," Sandor growled. 

Sansa whimpered. 

"Don't fret, little bird," he went on. All too softly, he picked up her flushed cheek. His hand was ice, instant relief. "I know you do. I see the way you look at me. You told me yourself—you're hungry too." 

"But I'm good," Sansa whispered. 

"Good girls like cock," he replied. He groped for her hem. He was coming for her most sacred part. Sansa twisted onto her belly, nails scrabbling at the soft earth beyond the quilt, but there was nowhere to go. Sandor trapped her with an arm beneath her waist. His mouth dropped to the nape of her neck. His hand snatched up her skirt. 

His branch descended. It fell like hot iron to her bare backside. 

"Tell me," he rasped at her ear. 

Sansa replied with a weak noise, and Sandor bit down on her lobe. "I like your cock," she whined. "I promise—I promise I'll put it inside of me." 

"When?" 

"When we're married. When I've claimed you." 

Sandor exhaled a growl and ground himself between Sansa's buttocks. Helplessly, she shifted up to meet his stroke. "There's a good girl," Sandor soothed. He took Sansa's outstretched hands in one of his and thrust again. "I'll go slow, like this. I'll treat you like a proper lady. Would you like that?"

Sansa meekly nodded, one cheek pressed to the quilt. She peered back and said, "Put it on my flower, please." 

Sandor's eyes flashed bright. "Naughty little bird." He raised his hips, then pushed his cock through Sansa's thighs. He swept up, planting his firm warmth on her achy petals. He spewed out a groan.

"Naughty dog," Sansa scolded. "I'm a helpless little maiden." 

As expected, the burnt half of Sandor's lips twitched. His jaw tensed, and released. He began to move against her. He went slowly, dragging his tip through her dew, teasing her center, prodding her swollen bud. He kissed her ear, along her jaw, to her mouth. "If I were a naughty dog," he said, in a burst of sour ale breath, "there wouldn't be any maidens beneath me." Sansa's bud throbbed so fiercely Sandor grinned—he felt it too. "Tell me," he rasped into her mouth. "Tell me what I really am." He bit at her lips, then the tip of her nose, then he came for her cheek. He made a sloppy mouthful of it, sucking and licking, as if she were juicy fruit. 

"You're a good dog," Sansa got out. "The sweetest dog. You wouldn't hurt me. You take good care of me, because I'm small, and sick with my tide."

Sandor unlatched from her cheek. "That's not the reason, little bird," he said, achingly low. 

For a brief second, Sansa's heart flew up, melded into the sky. She couldn't choose between a frown or a smile. "Then why?" 

Sandor answered her by lining the thick tip of his cock at her entrance. He let it slip. Sansa shut her eyes. 

"You love me," she whispered. 

"I love you," Sandor replied. 

His trunk dropped on her, wet and unyielding. He plowed her into soft earth. He trenched his chin atop her head, and mercifully, he drew up his cock. He resumed his gentle glide. His girth pried open her petals. It rolled against her bud, like kindling and coal on fire. "I love you," he grunted. "You're my little bird, my sweet peach, my precious omega. You're mine. I love you, and you're all mine." 

Sansa lips chose a frown. She planted it in the quilt alongside a fresh stream of tears. Sandor's weight atop her stole her breath, but she didn't want to breathe. She didn't want his black pine air. She was in the wrong direction, dirtbound. She wanted Father; she wanted the sky. "Papa," she pleaded. "Papa, please." 

The tree at her back didn't hear. Or perhaps it was a wild beast, huffing, grumbling, snarling, as he smashed, gutted, and uprooted. He rasped of love, a lignified love that stripped the air from her lungs. Sansa didn't know this kind. She was terrified. "Papa," she cried, and again, louder, "Papa, I love you." 

But the grunts were louder yet, and the branch bore deeper into her flesh. She was buried, dampened, a trampled flower in a flood. Sodden cotton clung to her. Water spilled from her. The dark burden at her back ate her whole. Sansa’s heart betrayed her. Her heart was burning, same as the tree. "I love you too, baby bird," he said. "Look at me." He seized her chin. She met his metal eyes. "I love you," he repeated, his voice saw blade raw. 

"I love Papa," Sansa replied. 

Sandor shattered. Seed spurted onto her flower, and its precious warmth gave Sansa her own bittersweet relief. She hated it. Sandor's face was twisted and ugly above her. She broke with a sob. Slowly, he withdrew his weight. Sansa curled her mangled stalks into a ball. She put her wet face to her wet knees and cried, alone. It was over. Into the forest she went, crushed she emerged. She didn’t belong in the dirt. She was just a little bird. 

A boot nudged her spine. 

"Who’s your Papa?" Sandor rasped down.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. The boot met her ribs and pressed her onto her back. It settled on her chest. It sunk into her bones. 

"M-Major General Stark," she wailed to an unwelcome sky. 

Sandor exhaled molten rage. "Get up," he barked. "Get the fuck up. You're going home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the feels. See y'all next time.


	16. Crimson and Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor ruts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all, 
> 
> Well, it's time. I want to talk about the warnings first: I decided to tag for violence and non-con. Sandor will have violent thought patterns, and there will be some blood and non-consensual touching. If you don't wanna read that, I've added a brief summary in the end notes. 
> 
> In addition, I have some story notes (maybe minor spoilers here but I'm putting them up front bc I think it might be helpful). For those new to A/B/O, rut is the alpha equivalent of heat. It can come on spontaneously if an alpha spends time around an omega in heat. Guess what, Sandor's been doing just that. He's about to go horny berserk and he's not gonna do a great job of reliable narration. Whomp whomp. 
> 
> The last thing I wanna mention, which I realize now I would have added earlier in the story, but y'all are technically reading a first draft (sigh), is that a claiming bite is the law in this universe. Not sure if this is the case in all omegaverse, but here, we could consider SanSan's relationship legally binding if they bit each other. It would be contestable if Sandor bit Sansa first (because alphas love nothing more than to argue over whose property is whose) but if Sansa bites Sandor, it'd be a clear sign of an elective bond and if someone else came to claim her (Littlefinger) legally he would be obliged to kick rocks. Honestly, I feel like a garbo writer for not including this tidbit earlier in the story. It's kinda implicit in omegaverse, but yeah. Marriage in a sept is mostly a propriety thing. If Sansa bites, she stays. I'm gonna add this detail somewhere in an earlier chapter so it'll read more smoothly for anyone who ever rereads. 
> 
> Now that I've written a whole-ass novel, hah, please allow me to share [this corny as hell piano version of Runaway](https://youtu.be/obWIUs6473M) that I listened to a gazillion times while writing this, because I have more SanSan feels than I know what to do with. Sigh. 
> 
> It's angsty as sin, but by all means, enjoy.

**Sandor**

The feeling came up on the saddle. The girl was weeping, wilting like a spent blossom over the pommel. She nestled her bony buttocks right into Sandor's cock. Thing was, she was probably used to its hardness. 

This was no ordinary hardness. 

Sandor first learned it at sixteen. It was a fever, but worse. Your blood bubbled like iron ablaze and swelled in your veins. It steamed up your brain. Sandor saw red. 

He was thinking of guts: a paring knife to a peach, one downward slice, ten fingers jammed in the gap, prying slick flesh to the pit. He was thinking of other guts: a cannonball blast, limbs gushing as they spun through the sky. Or a single stroke of a bayonet from belly to groin, viscera out, victory. Ruts were about blood.

At sixteen, rut-mad, they put Sandor out on patrol. He stalked the orchards and beat men to a pulp. He plucked peaches and feasted by stacked bodies, until the masters came and delivered a different type of body, new guts to split: omega. His cock was a cudgel too. So he battered flesh bloody at the whorehouse, collected more screams, and unburdened his seed. 

You spilled blood, and then you spilled cream. 

So here was his peach: fucking fetid. 

Sandor's pulse drummed in his ears and radiated white-hot from head to toe. It took the girl in. She throbbed against him, full of pretty pink guts, leaking juice from a damn few holes. Sandor felt her blood like his own, because that was the rut feeling:

Get inside her guts. 

Sandor held the reins, white-knuckled, over her bunched skirts. With each shift of the saddle, they rode up further, putting his fists on bare thigh, closer to her hot pit. He stooped low, ripped lungfuls of sour fruit smell, by command of his pulse. She smelled off because she was spoiled. She had been spoiled from the outset, and did a bang-up job of playing sweet, a goddamn mockingbird. A _Stark_ , a little princess, a mummer runaway. She didn't love Sandor back. He wanted to crack ribs. He wanted to see her heart, in case it matched his. 

Worse, he wanted the heart of a rich man—the beta who was sure to collect her, maybe bring the sheriff, or a whole damn platoon. He had sullied Sandor's fruit. 

But he couldn't stand her stench or sad wet peeps. He counted two ways to make them end: screams or silence. When he dropped from the saddle, and caught his rotting blossom, he opted for a third: distance. She needed to be gone, or she'd be hollowed out by sundown. 

Sandor stuck her on the porch. The sky was hot red and the shadows long. He sweated and dragged his limbs inside, weighted by molten ore. He was greeted by this: _home sweet home_. There was nothing sweet here—Sandor ripped the shit piece of stitchwork from the wall and tossed it in cold ashes. Next he tore up the girl’s little nest. He found her wooden cock and snapped it clean in two over his knee. _Crack_. He bundled it in bird clothes and soiled blankets and a handful of ribbons. 

He'd have to burn the mattress.

When Sandor came out, the bird began to shriek. "You can't," she wailed. "I've been so good." She latched onto Sandor's elbow, and he towed her, featherlight, dangling and kicking, to Stranger's side. He stuffed the saddlebags with her treasures, then grappled with her. She was all gangly arms and legs, with sharp nails and a nasty bite. "I'm not going," she cried. She was making Sandor's blood hotter, stoking his appetite. He had her by the shoulders, but she battered her heels into his shins, clawed his forearms, and pecked at his hands. She clamped down on a knuckle. Sandor howled, then dumped her to the ground. 

There, she writhed like a sad little snake. When Sandor reached down, she sank her fangs into his palm. The bloodlust was mutual; Sandor's snake surged. One more touch, and he'd be on her. She wouldn't make it to the saddle. She'd be halved up the spine, crimson and cream soup, crow food. 

Sandor fought his body across the rocky yard to the barn. He fetched his axe and his whiskey and stalked to the chopping stump. Liquor matched his guts—bitter flame. He filled his belly and swung at logs. They split like thick bone under honed iron. They resisted and cracked to reveal bright woody pulp. Sandor hacked them to splinters. He hacked the splinters to dust. He picked up another log, a thick crosscut of pine, and repeated the same process. 

His lungs ached. He forbade himself air. His blood burned. He had put himself in the forge. And over the boom of his heartbeat, this was what he heard: 

"Papa, I'm sorry. Let me come home." 

Sandor hefted the axe high and erupted with a roar. He cleaved the log, straight through the stump, down to solid earth. He ripped the blade from rock, then chucked it to the barn wall. Wood paneling shattered to welcome the axe in a gaping hole. At his back—an icy scream. 

Sandor needed the cold.

The bird had roosted at Stranger's hooves, snuggled up with Lady, the damn disloyal bitch. He thought of shucking Sansa's snowdrop skin. But without her frigid heart, it would turn to leather, puff and crackle under Sandor’s sun. He stormed past her, went to the well instead. He hauled up a sloshing bucket and stuck his face in it. His scars sizzled but cooled. He inhaled crisp water and bubbled out fumes. 

While he was buried in morbid peace, two frail arms circled his hips. Sandor burst from the bucket, gasping, and staggered back with a little creature fastened to his side. "Please don't give me away," she blubbered. She tried to climb him. She wanted to make a nest of his arms. Sandor pushed her down. "You don't belong." 

But she was putting peach on him, a sweet little trick. She rubbed him with two small tits, half out of her bodice, stained red with the sharpness of his teeth. Sandor grabbed her neck—fine, he'd eat. But when he dropped his mouth to her throat, he earned himself another scream. "No, not like that!" 

Sandor stared straight through the girl's crystalline blue eyes. "See," he spat. 

"You're awful," was her reply. 

"You're worse," Sandor shot back. He shoved his nose against hers and rasped, "You're ugly." 

He watched her ponds fill. She shook her little head. In a wisp of a whisper, she said, "I know why you're alone out here, Sandor. You're not a good man." 

Fuck a nest—she'd reaped herself the den. Sandor plucked her by her scrawny waist. Oh, she clawed, and chirped, and wept, but she was right. Sandor wasn't good. He had never been good. Gregor cooked him up bad and he'd been soot-souled ever since. But you know what? Sandor was strong. Strong as a goddamn ox and half as big. Stronger than this weepy bird with crunchable bones and nectar for blood. She had some nerve, crash landing, stinking up the ranch for days on end. 

Sandor was famished. 

Gods be damned, it was time for pie. 

He kicked his bedroom door clean off its hinges. He threw the bird onto his bed. She was gonna put up a fight. Sharp nails sliced up his forearms as he gripped her bodice in two fists and ripped. Cotton and silk parted easily to her belly. There were her pretty tits. Sandor shifted down, tore straight to the hem of her skirts, with small, useless hands yanking on his hair. He straightened and bent her arms at the right angles to get her sleeves off. He pitched her scraps aside. She was naked now. His arms were streaked red. 

“You’re a liar, little bird,” he rasped down to her. 

“No,” she whined. 

Sandor tussled with her busy legs. “When were you gonna mention daddy Stark?” He hooked his hands beneath her knees and wrested them apart. “You’re a special little bird. A rich lady bird. I knew that. I didn’t know it was half so bad.” Sandor put himself between her. Her cunt was bloated, syrupy, and bright red. It matched his cock. His cock had ballooned, swelled to the outer bounds of his skin. Five popped buttons and he was out. The girl scrambled back to nowhere—Sandor snared her hips. 

“But Papa’s dead,” she wailed. Her face was wet too, gummy with snot and tears. 

“Good,” Sandor snarled. “That leaves your stepfather.” He pressed himself to her rosy entrance. “You think he won’t put up a fight? You think he won’t bring the law down on me?” His tip bore down, welcomed by her warmth. With a shrill sob, Sansa let her water go. Hot piss splattered his cock and soaked into the quilt. Sandor doubled over with a groan. His cock slid up through her stream. He pinned her legs open with his hips, and trapped her wings in his fists. 

“You stink,” she cried. 

“You like that, do you?” he grunted. “Your little cunt does. Your cunt wants my cock.” 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

Sandor dropped his face to hers. Sweat rained to mingle with her tears. Spit dripping, he barked into her wobbly lips, “Rut.” 

She quieted, save for a feeble whimper. “You know there’s only one way for you to stay.” She shook her head. “Oh yes, little bird. You bite first.” Sandor lifted his hips, slid his cock along her swollen petals. You didn’t need love to make pups. You didn’t need love to claim. 

So why, oh Gods, fucking why, did Sandor feel this way? 

He thrust his neck to her mouth. “Bite,” he roared, but he felt her lips hide tight. “Fucking bite me.” And his guts were boiling. The light inside was dark red. It was all dark red, throbbing, grinding, writhing, inside him, beneath him, in the very air itself, a raw alive flesh mass. His guts were falling out. “I wanted to love you. I wanted to be yours.” His face burned. It melted; fluid came from his cracks, from his weakest points. He burned. He was in the forge. “I want to feel big,” he sputtered. So be big, he shouted to his aching blood. Make her small. And he rose up, like a mountain. He captured her fragile neck in one mighty fist. 

“I’ll take what’s mine,” he rasped. 

But mountains crumble too. They turn to coal; they turn to ash. Sandor bucked against his bird and sunk lower. Her shining eyes watched him. The moon knew: he didn’t belong up in the sky, he was hearth’s bottom dust. He squeezed her stupid bare neck and gasped for some hint of peachy breath. He ground against her flesh, but her flower had seized up. He was a smoke-swallowed pest. “I want to belong,” he choked out, and his chest landed on hers. “I want a family,” he said, and he licked his bird’s tears, her salty streams of snot. “I don't want to be alone.”

He was going to claim her. Red alpha blood swam in his guts. Her throat was there, weak and ready. His cock was in her thighs. He had slashed plenty of peaches. His family waited for him in her womb. But a little song rang out, a timid warble, in a voice sweet as a snowflake. “Then be good, Sandor. Please be good.” 

She sang him inside out. Sandor’s cock emptied, but his gut was going too. He had been holding onto a bellyful of peach juice and creekwater, so his blood made another claim, its last resort. It spilled hot onto the girl’s maidenhair and joined the puddle in the sheets. She started to cry again. Sandor couldn’t stop. It felt so fucking good to watch her in his water. He groaned because the heat was leaving. The fire spit to steam. 

He let go of the girl but fell on her. He stuck his nose in her plaits. Maybe his cock wasn’t spent. It thumped between them. She was slippery though, slicked with seed and piss. She wriggled out from beneath him, peeping as she went. When she slumped off the bed, Sandor caught her wrist. “I’m not done with you,” he said. 

“Don’t hurt me,” she whined, twisting in his grip. “Be gentle. Be like Father.”

Sandor jerked her back onto the sodden quilt. He grabbed both her wrists and pulled her forehead to his. “I am not your father,” he hissed, giving each word a pointed tip. “I want to fuck you. I want to bite you. I want to stuff you full of pups until seed spurts from every socket in your skull. Do you understand me? _I am not your father_.”

The bird closed her eyes. Tears fell. In a whisper she said, “I know, because I never loved you. I’ll always love Father more.” 

Sandor’s core cooled to hard iron. Slowly, he released her. “Then get the fuck off my property,” he growled through gritted teeth. “And don’t you ever come back.” 

The girl crawled from his bed. Sandor watched her flutter down the hall, then disappear. 

At last, and as always, he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped through, here's the summary: 
> 
> _Sandor experiences spontaneous rut while taking Sansa back to the cabin. He's worried he'll hurt her if she stays, so he starts to collect her things. In a heated moment, he takes her to his bed with full intent to claim her and her virginity. He isn't able to. Sansa talks him down, but in her own sorrow, she tells Sandor she's never loved him and will always love her father more. Sandor tells her to leave, and she does._
> 
> 😪


	17. Root, Bloom, Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa loses herself to heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :) 
> 
> Oh this chapter :) this one :) this thing I wrote after reading tender buttons and getting in touch with my inner poetic chaos :) 
> 
> I simply cannot resist fucking around (and later, finding out). Sorry. 
> 
> Weyes Blood's [Bad Magic](https://youtu.be/cxs96Mmfu7A) works well for this Sansa mood, so of course I've gotta link it. The song that started it all, sigh. 
> 
> A couple clerical notes: I updated Chapters 2 and 10 for bite-law continuity. I updated 16 to add that Sandor snapped the prosthesis in half, because rage. That should be it for now. 
> 
> Enjoy 🍑
> 
> ETA [Thingamajig by Miya Folick](https://youtu.be/II9JXA_VOZ0) matches the vibe as well.

Sansa escaped from the monster's den. How had she forgotten that he was a great dark beast, quick to anger, with an appetite the size of the night sky? Her heart quivered at a thousand times its usual pace. She took her achy body, limbs abuzz with fright, into the dusky light. 

She collapsed on the porch steps first, and had a good cry. Sandor was awful. He was ugly. He was a liar. He lied about being a good alpha. He was a horrible alpha. He had carried her to bed and shredded her dress to tatters. He tried to put his branch in her, and instead made her lose her water—simply humiliating. And worst of all, he smothered her in sap, every kind. He forced hard amber in her lungs. He basted her in sweat, blood, and scary tears, then topped that off with ropes of seed and a whole pond's worth of water. 

Sansa reeked like stables in high summer. Curled up on the top step, she had such filth on her that her thighs stuck to her bare belly. Lady came to lick to her tears, but Sansa needed a much better wash than that. 

She would do as she was told of course. 

She was leaving his horrible place. 

So Sansa pried skin from skin and tiptoed shakily to the well. She hauled up a bucket of water with all her might, arms burning. She splashed away the sap one palmful at a time. She shivered in her bare skin as hazy dark fell. Her flesh pimpled. She had no warmth left, save for the ruthless pounding of her bud. _Your cunt wants my cock_ , Sandor had said. How dreadful, and more dreadful yet, _how true_. Had Sansa not dreamt of it for days on end? Sandor's pups, a sown belly? He knew the dirtiest things. Like a pine tree, he anchored himself in muck. 

He was so very dark. It was terrifying, but Sansa should have known. He wore horror on half his face. He had nowhere to hide. 

And now she was a helpless little omega, trapped in the wild with a rutting alpha. That was his stink. That was the source of the pain between her legs. Her heart was frightened. 

Her flower wept. 

Sansa went to Stranger, where he idled in the yard, still dressed to ride. She reached blindly for a gown in the saddlebags. First her fingers found the top of her prosthesis, halved roughly and tipped in sharp splinters. _The monster!_ Sansa promptly tossed it to the ground. Next she latched onto a handful of silk—her nightgown. Her heat had muddled her mind to porridge. Traveling in silk, a ridiculous notion. When Sansa tugged on the gown and set her foot in the stirrup, she realized she didn’t even have her boots. Foolishly, she tried to mount, but she couldn't convince her weight into the saddle. All her muscles were porridge. She was nothing but a throb like thunder that clobbered her to earth. 

Sandor's earth. 

Sansa dropped to the dusty ground and cried. Lady was there, so Sansa wrapped her arms around the dog and nuzzled her black fluff. _Why do you like him,_ she wanted to know. _Why does such a cruel man have so many creatures in his care?_

Sansa knew the answer, so she sobbed. Crudely, she hoped her heart would come up to alleviate her burden. Sandor wasn't a liar. She was ugly. Same as his sap, he had stuck her with his ugliness for days on end. He poured it into her, drop by sour drop, like bitter liquor. So now she was an ugly, broken girl. A girl with no manners, and not a lick of decency. It was all Sandor's fault. She was pretty before she met him. She was pretty when Father loved her most. 

If Sansa couldn't flee on horseback, she decided she would walk. But as soon she stood, her soles pricked and knees buckled. Her palms scraped across gravel as her face toppled to craggy earth. The dirt wanted her. Father was long dead, and so was his love. She had no more sky-love that touched on her heart like a rainbow in summertime. She had Sandor's love, a monster love, crimson blood creeping through a scarred black mass. It was black pine on a cracked mountainside. It was a tummy turned inside out. A heart turned to iron turned molten turned to steel. His bed was a forge. He was a thousand degrees and Sansa was a workpiece, battered, smashed, shaped. 

This was her shape: ruined. 

Sansa tried to push onto her knees. She fell. It was dark now but her cheeks glowed like two suns. Sweat spilled from her temples and joined her tears to stream down her chin. She couldn't see anymore, even by starlight. The night pressed down on her. She was in pieces, a porcelain teacup crushed to seamless dust. She was going to be good; she was going to obey; she was going to leave. But she faced the cabin. Softwood dug into her hip: the broken prosthesis. 

It wasn't the time, but Sansa was thinking of how many ways there were to be ruined. She was teacup-ruined. And beyond, howling out from walls of stacked pine logs, a monster met his demise. _He's singing_ , she thought, though it was a silly thought, and a terrible song. But with the cock snug in the crook of her arm, the hurt brought her, slowly, to the porch. And she wanted to stand, but her legs were numb, cold as stars, her feet a distant memory.

 _Is my body lying to me?_ she wondered. _Are buds and flowers and dew and bees sinners? Birds live in trees, but there are no trees in septs. Are the Gods outside?_ Sansa had three pulses: bud, heart, head. Her mouth was dry tinder. _Home is in the hearth, but I want to be small, bigger than fear._ And she was in the main room, bellying past the table; the groans pierced her ears and rattled her skull. _Every socket, please, I've been so good, promise._ Down the hall was commotion. Sansa crawled towards it like bugs and little brothers ate flame. A dark beast mounted a cloud. Snow sprayed and fell. A sky room, for a big bird, an eagle, a hawk, someone who happily munched on those littler. 

There are better places for small creatures. Splinters pierced the raw meat of Sansa's palms. She clawed, inch by inch, floorboard by floorboard, into a softer place. Her place. Her nose led the way. Her fingers curled around stout canvas; her head pushed through, then her shoulders, her chest, her waist. Two concerted heaves on her knees and she flopped to the mattress, face down. 

_Home sweet home._

Sansa couldn't keep track of her moisture in its abundance. She couldn't touch it with her hands. She wasn't moving anymore, except to breathe, but even nest air was sparse and reluctant in her lungs. She prayed: _Papa_. The two syllables danced her lips apart and back together. Cries mixed with gasps mixed with incantation. _Papa, Papa, Papa, is the sky here? Is there room for us both?_

Papa was dead silent. _Please, please, please_. Sansa thought of truths: _good bird, sweet girl, pretty peach. Good peach, sweet bird, pretty girl. I wanted, I wanted, I wanted._

 _I love._

The white came. The walls and sheets were pale bright. The moon filled her eyes. _I am on the ground and in the sky._ _He didn't lie_. _New pine; tree and flower. Two things smaller than fire, snap, snap. Two things bigger than night, no night noise_. _Stars are silent; they stare_. 

_He's dead. He went into earth. And you can't go. Why? Flowers root and bloom._

_Flowers fruit._

_There are trees for little birds._

_I am a big tree, little bird._

_A little bird, big tree._

Her pulse roared so loud it was white. Her tide was white. She was white in the sheets, red where her heart beat. Her heart was the song. A branch bore into her side. _A thorn that's mine_. _My heart is not a liar. My fear is not a dog. Gods gave it to me. Papa did not. Root, bloom, fruit. Pearl dust and ash are one of like kind._

White rang heavy and blissful as one sun-sized septry bell. Flowers loved the sun. This was where Sansa was headed. She shivered and smiled. White burned and cleansed, left her pure. For the first time in days, or in a life: clean. She sang the ancient Maiden's prayer; this was her final song. To bad and blackened ears: 

_You were right, and I was wrong_. 

_I'm sorry,_

_I'm sorry,_

_I'm sorry._

But it was too late. The world and white were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 18 is drafted, I'm absolutely in love with it, say the word and it's yours.
> 
> 'Til then.


	18. Home Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor nests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy 🤠
> 
> Gonna try to keep it short. I am so surprised that this story got as much attention as it did (which isn't a lot, lol, but it's the most I've gotten). It is truly a pleasure to post and share with y'all. I have enjoyed this story every step of the way and let me tell you, I am SO nervous to post this last bit. It is very dear to my heart; I feel like such a goober for having so many Feelings about Fictional characters, but alas, this is the lot I've chosen. I sincerely hope it gives you the closure you were looking for - I think this ending really suits the story. I'm in love with it. 
> 
> Aaand I just wanna say if you liked this, I have more coming. If you liked this, I would love to hear why. I wanna write what we all want to read. For now, I'm going full tilt into the kinky side of things, with two projects in the works. You'll see these eventually; I have a serious writing habit. So yeah, stay in touch. Let me know what you like. I'll be here. I'm especially on twitter, [@_prettybadmagic](https://twitter.com/_prettybadmagic). 
> 
> Housekeeping note: I tweaked a few more chapters, details on twitter. Just minor bite and stepfather developments. If you reread, it should read smoother.
> 
> So last but not least, I simply have to recommend Chromatic's version of [I'm on Fire](https://youtu.be/VEFTK1stlGo) for this chapter. I know I'm always linking chaotic garbage but no song has ever suited a mood better than this. Welcome to the intersection of horny and tender. I call it ~Hard Times at Clegane Ranch~
> 
> Okay I'll let y'all read now...haha 
> 
> have fun... 
> 
> okay here we go...
> 
> enjoy 🍑

**Sandor**

Sandor burned. There was no other word for this crippling sensation, the likes of which he knew all too well. 

The bird flew away, and Sandor burned. 

Had his bed always been so big, so cold? Piss cooled to a frigid lake. Sandor laid in it, belly down, fuming. He ripped off his shirt, his pants, his boots. He put scorching skin to the drenched quilt and buried his face in the pillows. He roared. Fire shot up his throat and scalded it bloody. Better, somehow. Acrid relief. Sandor screamed again, and he caught his steel-solid cock in an unforgiving fist. He fucked down, straight into the lake. He filled his mouth with cotton. He gnashed his teeth and wet it. He roared. He ravaged. 

He drew his hips up and slammed them to his fist. The mattress sagged. The headboard clattered against the wall. His cock was white-hot. It was harder than it had ever been, alive in this goddamn forge. So Sandor pounded it, and let his lungs rip like bellows, his fist the hammer, his body an iron anvil. There was nothing of his bird. Not a drop of peach. He had squeezed the sweetness from her skin, smothered her, cracked and kindled her. _Bad, bad dog_ , and he'd do it all over again. _Come back here, little girl. You miss daddy alpha? Here's an alpha for you. Ten fucking inches. Spread those pretty peachy thighs or they'll turn to pulp like the rest of you._

_You're jam, girl._

_You're mine._

Sandor was splitting peaches in his rabid dreams by the bucketful. Each thrust was a fresh dive to the pit. Each thrust birthed a grunt and a groan. He came once, and started right back up again. He came twice, and a third time, and he fucked his shitty pile of seed. Sandor bit and ripped pillows. Downy feathers puffed and spit into the dark air, but it wasn’t enough: he needed more soft insides to scatter. He clawed at the mattress and gutted clumps of cotton. _Fuck you_ , and he would if he could. He was a fool to think he'd earned himself a pretty girl. To think dark hearts picked themselves up from ash and got to live as glowing coal. So he thought, _put me back, cunt._

_Put me back in the dirt._

He got his wish—with his next downward shove into his fist, the legs of his bed shattered. The mattress slumped to the ground, and Sandor rose up onto his knees with a growl. "You said forever," he howled, and he worked his cock to a blur. "Forever, you stupid pretty flower." But he loved his flower, and at the thought of her petals, he came. Surely that was the last of his seed. It jutted from his cock to join the puddle. It flowed down his knuckles. His lungs pumped offensive alpha stench like black sludge. He heaved it in and out but knew no calm. 

He dropped face first into the headboard and sputtered. Beneath him sat a pile of bloody feathers and stuffing. His scars were open. His guts were out. 

He wanted that to be the last of it, a battle hard fought, and scarcely won. 

She was gone. 

He was alone. 

But when his blood dropped from a boil to a simmer, his nostrils perked just-so. There was a tickle of a scent, weak and familiar.

Sandor’s heart burst up from the hearth—not his bird, but a blossom. 

A fragile blossom, fallen to earth. 

His blossom hurt. 

Sandor was nothing but his blood. He felt every drop swim in his veins and every cord of muscle pull taut. His pulse pummeled his ribs and shouted in his skull. 

_Go to her._

Slowly, he stood. He sniffed the night air, found his lighter on the bedside table, flicked it, lit a lantern. Coolly ablaze, he stalked down the hall; her door was open. On the floorboards, a trail of dry brown peach juice led to her nest. "Little bird," Sandor breathed, and he bounded towards her white walls of canvas. 

But he stopped short. He smelled himself and hated it. The bird would hate it worse. So he went to the washstand, gave the rag a good dunk, and sloughed the stink from his skin. There was crusted blood on his forearms, crusted seed on his belly, and the stench of piss above it all. He scrubbed hard and rinsed and scrubbed again. Water pooled at his bare feet. He scrubbed them too. He finished by dropping a whole pitcherful of water over his head. He shook himself dry.

He returned to her nest and tried again, "Little bird," but louder. "Little bird, please, it's me." He didn't like the crushed blossom scent, or that his cock was a good three quarters hard, throbbing, saying, _not crushed enough_. 

He grit his teeth, and pulled back the curtains. 

"Oh, little bird." 

Sandor fell to his knees. He stuck the lantern on the trunk and pushed inside. Oh Gods, she had truly wilted. She lay belly down in rumpled silk. Her blush was milk. The only redness was in her frayed plaits and upturned, bloodied palms at her sides. 

"Sansa," he called. He shuffled to kneel at her hip. He felt her forehead: ice. He picked up a wrist and felt for her pulse. Faint, like the feeble flap of a butterfly's wing. Sandor took her palms and licked them clean. The splintered prosthesis poked at her ribs; he pitched it beneath the curtains. He pet her curls and ignored his aching cock and rasped, "Sansa, I need you to wake up. Wake up, pretty bird, please." 

Where was she hurting? But it was stupid question, because Sandor could smell the sweet, ripe hurt between her legs. His hand was out, lifting her gown over the soft swell of her buttocks. He parted her thighs and he didn't mean to, but his face dropped down. Greedily, he drank her in. Dewy as a rainstorm, red as a rose. And swollen, so very swollen. God's perfect peach. 

"Papa?" 

Sandor's blood steamed his spine straight. His hands turned to fists. "Not papa," he said, gruff. 

"Not papa," the bird peeped. "Alpha." Her eyes eased open. When they found Sandor, her lips pulled to a weak smile. "Mine," she said. 

"Yours," Sandor echoed back. 

"It hurts," she said, and she glanced down, where her back was arched up, her plump petals on full display. 

"I know," Sandor replied. He put a palm on her creamy thigh, and she winced. It took everything in him not to pounce, stuff himself in her rosy hollow, where he would earn more scared faces and yummy little noises. He wanted to feast. His jaw ached, eager. _Be good_ , he thought, and he forced out his softest, "You can't stay, little bird. We need to get help. I'm afraid—I'm afraid I'll hurt you worse." 

The girl's eyes went to his cock. He didn't like that. He didn't like how they widened and shone in the lamplight, how she shifted her little buttocks and drew in her lower lip. But oh, his cock was doing just fine. A fresh rush of blood sent it bounding up to meet his gut. He caught it and groaned, and when he dragged in new air, it was goddamn peach air, a tree crowned in bright yellow and orange, baking in the summer sun. 

"You want to fuck me," she said. 

Sandor's cock burned in his fist. The hand he kept on the girl's thigh dug in. She whimpered, and stupidly, stupidly, Sandor looked up. He got doused in her shimmery ocean eyes. They stunted and cooled his charred skin. The first word to crest his lips:

"Please." 

But the bird came back with, "Am I ugly?" 

Sweat nipped at Sandor's scars. He blinked away flashes of red. "No," he said. "I am." 

Sansa frowned, and she tried to move her little wings, press her palms into the mattress and push up, but she was too wobbly. She collapsed. With her little face mashed in a pillow, she whispered, "You're not." 

"Little bird…" Her cunt was dripping. Her juices shone on moonwhite skin. Sandor's hand slid up. He ran a finger through her glossy petals, then touched down on her bud. It flared like a little sun. "I'm sorry I lost my temper," he said. "I'm hurting too." 

"Your rut?" 

"My rut." 

"It looks bad." 

Sandor shouldered his sweaty brow without taking his hand from his cock, deep purple now. He figured if he trapped it tight enough, it wouldn't find its way between the girl's legs. His fingers were there instead, gently probing her dew. She deserved his touch. She didn't deserve to hurt like he did. "I know," Sandor said, and he steadily stroked himself to take his mind off her silken insides, undoubtedly the softest bed for stiff flesh to rest. 

"You need help," Sansa said. "You need a flower." 

"I know," Sandor replied. 

"Do you still love me?" 

It wasn't sweat. There were tears coming down to bite at his newly split cracks. Sandor took his hand from the girl's center. With dew-shined fingers, he picked up her cheek. "I love you so much, little bird," he said. "I know I'm not a pretty dog. I know I'm old. But I'm lonely, and I was hurting worse before you came." 

"Really?" 

Sandor nodded. He shut his eyes and salt stung. "It's the hearth, the fire, inside—it's like I never left. I'm not good inside. I lied, because I wanted you to stay. You made me better. You helped." 

"I did?" 

Sandor took the risk of opening back up. Two watery gemstones greeted him, and he knew, for perhaps the first time, that he had truly escaped flame. It wasn't in him; it was beside him, soft as snow, prettier than all the stars in the sky, and frightening, but only because she beamed the holy truth: _you are very much alive_. Sandor wanted to bask in her gentle glow. He lowered himself down by her side, resting his better half in her pillows. He borrowed her hand—oh, he needed it—and placed it on his ruined cheek. Raw palm met open wound, and there were guts entangled, two pulses surged as one. "Like this," Sandor said, as his sweet little flame laid ice on his skin. She brought her face closer, put the cold tip of her nose on his. 

"Is love scary?" she asked. 

Sandor nodded. "Yes, very." 

"Like fire and night?" 

"Like fire and night."

The girl thought for a minute, breathing sweet warm wisps onto Sandor's lips. "I lied too," she said. "I was afraid, and I didn't know. But now I know better." 

"Know what?" 

"Oh Sandor,” she hummed, smiling. “I love you." 

She kissed him blind, put a peach in his ribs. She was his heart. She sifted out the blackness and planted better guts, red and sweet, juice abundant. Sandor's eyes closed and it was alright to be filled with fiery blood, to listen to its battle hymn. Triumph was Sansa's lips against his. So he smiled back and said, "I love you too, little bird. More than every star in the sky and more than every speck of dirt. I love you bigger than the whole world." 

Sansa purred and shifted, rubbing her little thighs together. "I'll be so gentle with you," Sandor said. He skirted his palm across her back and rested it atop her buttocks. His middle finger sunk eagerly into her rose. "We'll make a family. You'll be my wife, my pretty omega. Would you like that?" 

She nodded and arched into Sandor's touch. "My flower hurts." 

"I know, sweet girl. I'll help." 

"With your branch?" 

Sansa took her hand from Sandor's cheek and trailed down his belly, to where his cock lay, purple and stiff as sin. Her touch to his tip sent fresh fire through his veins, and he bit his tongue to keep the heat in. At the girl's innocent look, he got out, "Please." 

"Please what?" 

Cold fingertips circled his tip and ran down his shaft. Sandor's teeth gnashed, wedded to near bent. Through them he grunted, "Please, pretty bird. Please can I have your flower?" 

"Do you promise to be gentle?"

She squeezed; Sandor groaned. "So gentle," he said.

“Well…” Sansa said, thinking. She shimmied her hips to take his finger deeper in, walls fluttering to his knuckle. “Alright. You can have me, because you asked so nicely." 

Love-lit, Sandor bolted upright. He sunk his knees astride Sansa's thighs with her peach out, spread wide. His cock was in her slicked-up crevice, pounding, but before he could stuff it in, the girl scrunched her face up and whimpered. Sandor fell over her in a drip of black hair.

"You don't want me like this," he breathed down. She shook her head. 

"I want to be the tree," she said. "Big." 

"Here." Sandor dropped to her side. He curled his arm at her waist, slid over and scooped her, so she laid on his chest. "No gown," she whispered, so Sandor took her hem, and lifted it over her head. "No plaits," and his fingers went to work, unlacing her ribbons, freeing strands of luminous red. Then she was naked and unbound, a cold cloud nestled against his sweltering skin. Two tiny hands held his neck. Soft petals cradled his cock; juice dripped down. 

Their pulses danced.

"It feels nice," Sansa said. 

"It does," Sandor replied. He smoothed his hands along the curls at her back, then took up her buttocks, a sweet mound in each palm. He moved the bird against him, basting his length. He met her warmth with the slow grind of his hips. "How's that?" he asked. 

"Good," she answered.

"Good. You have the perfect flower, little bird. I love your pretty flower. She's so pink and warm, wet with the sweetest dew. And you know what?"

"What?"

"She can fit me." 

The girl buried a weak moan in Sandor's skin. "You think so?" she whispered.

"I know so," Sandor replied. He slid her small entrance so it lined up with his tip. "Can I show you?" 

Sansa nodded. Her ruby blush had returned; her cheek rested hot atop his heart. Hers, now. Every part of Sandor belonged to this beautiful girl, his lady love, his miracle, his heaven, and his earth. How odd, to hold a perfect universe here in his arms. He would have thought the universe bigger, heavier, darker. But no, she weighed the same as a lick of flame or a moonbeam's kiss. She smelled sweet as stars; Sandor lifted her light. "There's a brave girl," he said, and his cock pushed inside her rosy flesh. 

He went slow for her, his precious bird. Though dewy, her flower was fresh, bound tight. It strained to welcome his width. Soft walls wrapped around his aching pulse, clenched, tugged. So this was what it was like to be inside a maiden, a budding spring blossom. Reluctant warmth made way for rigid desire. The bird breathed in quivering whimpers as each inch sunk in. Sandor started with half, kissed her sweet head, and asked, "How's that?" 

"I like it," she said. 

So Sandor gave her gentle strokes. He pulled her partway down, brought her up. Then he would hold her at his tip, draw his hips up instead. His cock liked that, the easy drilling, baring into her furled den. Sure, he got a little greedy, and picked up speed. He wasn't deep yet. He was learning her softness, the gentle throb of her insides on his. He was making her sing little bird songs that came in the form of wispy, peachy breath. Sandor basked in it. He had arrived in his orchard; he laid under the prettiest tree. 

And he told her. He said, "You're the prettiest peach tree. Did you know that?" 

She perked up, lifting her chin so that her eyes met his. "Really?" 

"Of course," Sandor said. 

When she smiled, he snuck in an extra inch, and hid a groan in set teeth. He could come at any time. Blood burdened and burned his cock. His pulse hammered against Sansa's silky, maiden-taut skin. And his knot— 

It grew. That's where the excess blood swelled and ached. It boiled to the point of steam, a goddamn pressure valve, biding its time to burst. Sandor took the girl deeper. He ground her narrow entrance against the top of his bulging knot, and of course, the naughty bird knew the sensation. She got that look in her eye, the little alpha look, sparkling blue eyes and a delicate brow slanted just-so. 

"I can feel it," she said. This time, Sandor didn't move her. She wiggled her hips all on her own, gliding up, a test, pushing down, to make sure her precious knot was still there. 

When she landed atop it, she smirked. 

Sandor swallowed down something thick. His own tongue, maybe. He couldn't find anything to say, and the girl was rising up, blooming before his very eyes. She set two small palms in the meat of his chest, perched high up on his cock. He thrashed inside her. She smiled wider. 

"This is better than wood," she said. "Your heart is inside me. He's alive." 

Again, Sandor throbbed, and his fingers sunk deep in her little buttocks. But he was done there; there were new fruits on display, two creamy treats. He let the girl hold her own weight. He held her tits instead. "Do you like them?" she asked. Sandor nodded. "Tell me," she said. 

"They're lovely, sweet girl. My favorite little fruits. They fit my hands perfectly." 

"Your hands are big," Sansa said. She put her paws atop his to prove her point. They looked like two little snowflakes on an open patch of earth. She pressed the pads of her fingertips to Sandor's knuckles, steadying him in place. "But your cock is bigger," she went on. She circled her hips, sized him up, gripped him with her pillowy insides. Sandor's belly rumbled. His seed swam and sagged in his sack. He could, he could, but all he got out was a famished growl. 

The bird held his stare. She wouldn't let go. 

"But you know what's the biggest of all?" 

Sandor shook his head, mute. 

The girl fell on him. Stole his hands, locked his fingers in hers, and pinned them beside his head. In a cascade of red curls, her mouth dropped to his. 

"You," she said. 

"No," Sandor breathed. 

"Yes," Sansa chirped back. "You're my big pine. The tallest, darkest, most handsome tree. You're all mine." 

Sandor couldn't take her any more of her moon eyes; he shut her out. To the wanted black, he asked, "Do you mean that?" 

"Mhm." Soft lips pecked his. "You're very brave. It wasn't fair what your brother did to you. I'm sorry he put you in the fire. I'm sorry fire scares you. It scares me, too. I'm scared for you." Kisses touched down like snowdrops; she came for his scars, lined ice along his jaw, packed it into the cove of his mottled cheek. "I think that's why I'm in love. I don't want you to be afraid. I don't want you to hurt like you did in the flames." 

"He made me bad," Sandor said. 

"No," Sansa said back. She trailed kisses to his lips, tasted him. Deep into his ribs, she whispered, "You're a good man." 

When tears fell, she swept them up with her delicate tongue. "You're good, Sandor," she said, and again, "You're good. You're my good alpha. And do you know what?" 

"What?" 

"You'll be a good father, too. The very best there ever was." 

"Really?" 

A cold palm landed on Sandor's cheek, and he knew to look. His pretty omega looked back. "I'm going to make you a father. Watch." The bird guided Sandor's chin down, to where her flower sat and soaked his knot. "Would you like that? Should we make our pups?"

Sandor nodded. "Yes, please. I'd like that very much." 

"Alright," Sansa said. "I'll ride, and you watch. When I'm ready, you can come. Understood?" 

"Understood."

Midnight opened to glorious noon sky under his little bird's shine. She smiled a mouthful of pearls, blushed rubies, and stared sapphires. To be ridden by treasure, his cock snug in a trove, and oh fuck, she was good. She rolled her slender hips, swallowed his shaft to the knot; she went fast, fuck. When Sandor tried to take his bird's waist, she put his hands to the wall. His pulse fought pink guts; her hot flower won. Oh Gods, she was falling. Sandor watched it: her petals parted, belly bulged, soft maidenhair landed on that much coarser and darker. He felt it: beautiful warmth swallowed his knot entire. His cock hit and ripped new hollow. "Sandor, Sandor," his bird cried, "Sandor, come." 

Like that, seed scattered. To the girl's fertile womb he sent his saplings, where they'd grow pretty and strong, bigger than black skies and kinder than summer. Her flower was shelter; their guts beat together. And it was heaven, he knew. Blind in his bliss, he didn't notice the girl's teeth until he felt them. Sharp pearls tore eager flesh at his throat. Rose lips pulled him in; her tongue lapped the mess. She stayed, and bit, drank her peach belly to roundness. 

Sated, the little bird collapsed. Sandor gathered her up, inhaled her soft fire hair, and relished the swell of her tender fruits on his chest. Their bellies stuck together. His knot ached firm against her entrance; his cock nested deep to her pit. Home at last. 

But not quite. One snowy plain sat untreaded. Meekly, Sansa looked to Sandor. She swept aside her curls, and bent her pale neck. "My turn, please," she said. 

Ever good, Sandor took her throat in his teeth. Pulp parted like butter; tangy juice rushed forth. 

Sixteen, rut-mad, Sandor prowled orchards. The night sky watched with starry eyes that mocked and a crescent frown that cut. He took his flesh by the bullet load; his hands reeked of gunpowder. After each blast, the quiet rang louder. Here was the quiet: _there is only you and the dark_. Rut-mad, and he was alone at night, far from a home that hurt, in a new land where stars stung the same, and strange plants sprang from bountiful earth. It was him and the trees, pregnant with peaches. Hands black with fire and blood, he plucked. 

Here was his peach: his first and only taste of honeyed sun. In her he sipped the nectar of the stars and glutted flame turned fruit. His pitch gut bubbled bright with sky-born sugar. It joined his blood to sing a fairer song: 

_You belong, Sandor._

_Home sweet home._

His little bird knew the tune. When Sandor pulled his lips away and lapped a trickle of blood from her rose-ringed neck, she whispered, “I'm yours.” 

Sandor curled his palms around her throat and tilted her little chin up. “No,” he replied. “I'm yours.” Sansa gave him a starry smile. 

“I’m catching our pups,” she sweetly said. 

“I know,” Sandor replied. 

“How many did you give me?” 

Sandor shifted his hips, testing his knot against her tightly wrung warmth. “Four,” he said. “Four to start.” 

“Four,” Sansa chimed, but her brow quickly rumpled. “Why not five?” 

“I’ll give you five. I’ll give you five dozen. I’m far from done with you, pretty little peach.” 

Sandor came for her nose and nibbled on its pinkened tip. She giggled and opened up; he snapped at her plush lips, dragged the bottom one through hungry teeth. “I’m going to stuff you like a little cream cake," he put in her mouth. "Then I'll lick up every last crumb.” Sansa answered with a breathless, “Yes, please.” 

They rested together in a slow kiss, mouths married like other red flesh, bound in the sacred spaces beneath firmer skin. When Sandor’s knot waned and slipped from its favored sheath, his bird whispered, “I love you very much, sweet pine. Can we please go again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; a pleasure as always 🍑


	19. Epilogue - Nesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa build their nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all 🤠
> 
> Read on for the epilogue, some serious cute girl shit. What a ride this has been! I should note, I added on to the end of Chapter 18 (just a smidge) because of course I did. It ramps up to this, the story of the new family Clegane. Yeehaw!

**Sansa**

Sansa quickly learned how many ways there were to make pups. 

The first three times Sansa was the tree. She waited out her catches atop Sandor's chest, where he petted and kissed her, and told her plenty of stories. After that, Sandor fetched water, a whole crisp, cool pitcherful with a mug to share. They filled their bellies, kissed for a while, then started making pups again. This time, Sandor was the tree. He rose up tall, and oh merciful Maiden, he buried his branch deep. He plucked Sansa's flower like that three more times, then collapsed like a fallen log. Sansa was a sweet creature in its hollow. Curled in his arms, she slept, a softened branch nestled at the quick of her. 

When she woke, well, it was time to do it all over again! 

Sansa understood why Sandor had wanted this so desperately. There was nothing like a warm, pounding branch, especially paired with the world's strongest tree. You didn't even need a bed, which was perfect, because Sandor had broken his. He liked Sansa as his peach tree of course, mostly forwards, but he also liked putting her backwards. He liked her to present as omegas ought to do, and he liked her just as well on her back, legs draped to his shoulders. He liked to show off his strength and stand straight up—this could be done anywhere, and oh, he did! In Sansa's nest he stood and planted his pups with her against the wall. As she caught, wrapped around his mighty trunk, he went to the main room, and set the cauldron to boil. While he stirred their pottage, he went in for another round, then spread Sansa on the table and finished her like the sweetest dessert. 

Sandor loved taking Sansa on the table. He spread her petals wide and watched his branch invade. He made the silliest face each time his knot sunk in, as though he'd tasted the sourest of lemons. When at long last he slipped from her, true to his word, he drank his wasted pups up. Oh, what a mess there was. Spent speed glazed the nest's mattress like cake frosting dried and cracked. It found its way to the floorboards, the walls, the chairs, and the table. Each surface boasted smears of white, from juices both alpha and omega, swiped through with paws of two distinct sizes. 

For two days entire, they had not a moment to spare. They made pups in the nest, on the table, on Sandor's sunken mattress, the porch, the rocking chair, the wellside, and even the hayloft! Sandor bent Sansa into his favorite shapes and put his branch in from all different angles. He touched very dirty places, and once, just once, Sansa let him roost in the wrong hollow. Ouch! 

Then at long last, on the third morning, Sansa woke without fever. Her flower was achy yet cool; her bud's flame was barely a flicker. At her belly the branch lay dormant, for once less rigid than its namesake. Sansa wriggled from Sandor's steel trap embrace to kiss his scruffy face awake. "It's over!" she chirped. "My lady's tide!" 

Of course, her squirming woke the beastly branch up, and she gave him a ride. There wasn’t a knot anymore, but Sandor held Sansa close after he spilled his seed, like a bird too small yet to fly away. 

Next came the cleaning. 

Sandor prepared the tub before the hearth, and Sansa had the first bath. While she soaked, he scrubbed the cabin clean: walls, floorboards, and furniture all. He did this naked of course; there hadn't been a scrap of clothing worn for days. Betrothal was a wild delight! 

But it was just as Sandor finished his big bird bath by the well, dressed himself and Sansa, gathered the blankets for wash, that he scented two strangers come to knock. "The sheriff," he said, with his crooked nose to the air. He took a long drag. "And a beta." 

Sandor fetched his shotgun from its mount on the wall, but it was Sansa who led the way to the porch. She stood post on the top step with Sandor grounded before her, a delicate hand laid close to the red claim on his neck. When Stepfather and the sheriff came galloping down the lane, she held herself straighter. Stepfather hissed and sputtered and shouted his complaints, but Sansa merely swept Sandor's hair behind his shoulders. 

"I chose him," she said. "We're to be married." 

Stepfather almost charged, but Sandor pumped his shotgun. He nodded to the sheriff, who solemnly tipped his hat and took over Stepfather's reins. "Be seeing you folks," the sheriff said, and like that, they were off. 

When the hoofbeats faded into the distance, Sansa let her knees buckle. Sandor scooped her up and rocked her, said, "It's done, little bird. I've got you." 

There wasn't time to waste: they had a wedding to plan. 

First they visited Mrs. Lydden, who was overjoyed by the news. Sansa told her Sandor had been a very proper alpha, but blushed when she confessed, yes, his pups were already inside her. Mrs. Lydden didn't mind—she set straight to work getting measurements for the gown, talked of the dinner they were to have, and the families that needed invitation. While Sandor went off to do repair work, she told Sansa, "He deserves a gentle omega like you. Otherwise, what a waste of an alpha!" They talked of flowers and desserts, and Mrs. Lydden promised to see her pups born. "You'll need a woman's hand," she said. "No one in these hills is better suited." 

So when they said their goodbyes, it was off to meet the neighbors. They knew Sandor well and greeted Sansa gladly. There were the Serretts, the Swyfts, and the Sarsfields, with the Braxes the wealthiest family, up north by town. Joanna Swyft was Sansa's age, and oh, the most pleasant company. She was newlywed herself and halfway through her pregnancy. To think, Sansa's pups would have pups to play with! Better yet, Joanna promised to call for tea and country walks and holiday dinners. 

Through every introduction, Sandor stood tall by Sansa's side. He blushed when Sansa spoke so fondly of him, but couldn't help to share his plans: a bigger and better cabin, with room for at least a dozen pups. A second barn if they could spare it, a coop for chickens, and for the horses, a gated paddock. The men volunteered their help with the building, the women with the drapes and blankets that needed sewing. And yes, they would attend the wedding! 

The sept at Hornvale was small and quaint, made of pine timber instead of milk-white marble inlaid with dazzling crystal. But the wooden benches filled with new friends. The Seven watched as Sandor changed Sansa's cloak with his, deep yellow, patterned with three bounding black hounds. They kissed and the Gods smiled; they nibbled each other's necks, a silly show. Then Sandor took Sansa in his arms, carried her out from the sept, and tossed her up in the saddle. 

Together, wedded, man and wife, alpha and omega, Sandor and Sansa Clegane rode home. 

Sandor took Sansa to his repaired bed sweetly that night, soft and slow, as he had their first time. He kissed her to sparkling, licked her between the legs, then let her sit atop his branch. Sansa went slowly too, so she could watch all of Sandor's faces. He wasn't allowed to buck his hips, and she only permitted the gentlest hold on her breasts or waist. It was Sansa's turn to ride. She loved moving his branch inside her, devouring him with her fiery flower. She made Sandor plead to spill his seed, and she said yes, because she was the sweetest peach tree. They nibbled on cake and made pups through the dawn. Under peaceful sun, they slept. 

Pups had certainly been made. 

Sansa felt the first flutterings the next moon, her quickening. New life grew in her womb: Sandor and Mrs. Lydden agreed. So Sansa's belly swelled, and there was much work to be done. The men came lugging timber and carts stocked with tools. Joanna came with cotton, a spindle, and a loom. Walls were knocked down, and fresh ones put up. Roofs were laid, fences built, rooms furnished with dressers and cradles, beds, and in the kitchen, a much bigger table. 

And all the while, Sansa learned the country life. She read recipe books and taught herself to cook. She learned weaving and knitting, then made at least a dozen blankets. She sewed sweet little pup clothes: pants, gowns, and bonnets. She stitched cushions, drapes, even the pillow cases. Each bare room earned its bedding; trunks and dressers were quickly laden. As a rancher's wife, Sansa worked dawn to dusk, and then sometimes in the evening, by candlelight. 

Spring days stretched to long summer. The fruit in Sansa's womb swelled, doubled, tripled, and then she outgrew her gowns. Her breasts blossomed too, and Sandor loved the spoils. Each night after his hard work of building, he came to Sansa in bed. He rubbed her feet, her achy belly, and her ever so tender chest. He listened to his pups and talked to them. "Were you good to your mama today?" he liked to ask, and if she said no, he'd scowl and scold, "Have you been kicking again?" 

He kissed his pups until Sansa was breathless with giggles. Then he'd come after her swollen breasts to suck and nibble. Though his seed was well planted, he was nothing shy of thorough. Sandor took Sansa's flower every night, at least once, often two or three times. He liked her once in the morning, and then again for his afternoon rest. He said she looked beautiful, round and fruiting. He'd dreamt of this: her belly, big and pretty as the moon, no, _prettier_. "You're glowing," he told her often. "You're my sun and stars, the whole damn universe. You're my heart too, a bright little fire. You're my everything, Sansa, did you know that?" 

"What are our pups, then?" she asked back.

"Everything and more," he replied, painting her belly with kisses. "Heaven on earth." 

They lived in heaven together. Each Smithsday they cooked dumplings for dinner, and Sansa baked berry crisp with whipped cream for dessert. On Mothersdays they went to the waterfall and shared a picnic. When they had time to spare, they went up to Hornvale. Sansa befriended more ladies in town, bought fabric, cookware, and if Sandor said yes, new silk ribbons. 

Sandor said he put four pups her, and he must have. Soon Sansa was nothing but a true globe of a belly, with moons for feet and puffed sausages for fingers. Summer wore on, and she took to bed. Sandor cared for her and finished carving four pretty cradles. He helped Sansa dress, combed her hair, and even learned to weave her plaits. She needed his help to climb down and make water in her pot, but he was very strong, and more so patient. He sang to Sansa at night and read from her favorite books. He talked to his pups until they settled. "You can come out now," he told them. "I think your mama's had enough. We're ready to meet you." 

He charmed them right out. In the middle of the clearest summer night, the stars crisp diamonds in the sky, Sansa woke, swimming in a puddle of water. Oh, her belly churned and twisted. She was frightened. Sandor told Lady, "You run on, get Mrs. Lydden." Then he cleared the sheets, put out fresh layers of the thickest and oldest. He got cold water for Sansa to drink, and a damp cloth to wipe her sweat with. "You're alright, little bird," he soothed. He held her close and gave her all the kisses she needed. 

Giving birth was scary. It hurt like a trunk to the flower. There was blood and guts and stuff that Sansa would rather not talk about. Mrs. Lydden was there to guide the pups home. Sandor knelt bedside and held Sansa's hand. "You're so brave," he told her. "My brave mama bird." 

One by one the pups arrived. There was Eddard, then Robb, then Bran, then little Rickon. Sandor joined Sansa in bed. He sheltered the pups for her; he had room in the broad reach of his arms. But after Rickon, Sansa felt that same burning pressure again. She pushed and she pushed, and she welcomed her fifth, a beautiful, healthy girl. "Margaery," she whispered, and she wept, and she held the sweet, sticky, fussy babe to her breast. There were tears in Sandor's eyes too, tears down to his chin, tears dripping to his chest. 

Mrs. Lydden tidied up and left them, tucked safely in bed. 

They wore no bedclothes that night. Skin to skin, they nested as family. Sandor held three pups; Sansa kept two suckling on her breasts. He rocked them and soothed them—he knew them well already. When one or other cried out for Sansa, he'd give their head a little sniff, say their name, and pass them over. He doted on all of them, but Maggie especially. "The littlest bird," he called her. "My sweetling girl." 

Sansa ached. Her flower had been thoroughly tattered. But her heart ached more. She curled up beneath Sandor's arm, watched hands as big as the treetops gently pet the world's newest creatures. His eyes shone like stars; his voice was rich as the dark. 

"I love you, little Ned, little Robb, little Bran, little Rickon. I love you, little Maggie." 

And he kissed their sweet heads in turn. Then he bent to kiss Sansa, atop her wild spray of curls. There he whispered, "I love you most of all, mama bird." 

"I love you too," Sansa replied. "My sweet papa pine." 

And so they lived happily in that ranch out west, where omega claimed alpha, where pups were planted, and where the new family Clegane was made. A papa, a mama, and five precious pups, or as Sansa liked to think: six little birds, in the reach of one big tree. 

Home at last, here, as Mrs. Sandor Clegane. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! Dunno if I'll ever write a story so good as this ever again, lol. I'm currently recharging my metaphoric ~creative crystals~ so who knows when I'll have something else up. In the meantime I'm still posting Another Nova, which is, well, getting spicy. 'Til next time 🍑


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